Author: julianawight

12 years before

The sea had left her drowsy, lulled by its constant motion and whispered promises. For the final hour of the crossing, Odette remained pressed against the wooden rail, her fingers curled tightly around the rough wool of her traveling cloak, eyes heavy as she watched the misty outline of land approach. The salt air clung to her skin, gritty and cold, and the cries of gulls echoed overhead, sharp and plaintive beneath the leaden sky.

When the vessel finally docked, she rose with the tentative grace of a child on the edge of something unfamiliar. Her legs tingled, sluggish from stillness. Her braid had loosened in the wind, blonde strands sticking to her damp cheeks. This place—Scotland—felt different. The wind had teeth. The sky was a veil of iron. She understood none of the words shouted by the dockhands. They were foreign, clipped and unfamiliar, heavy in the mouth like stones.

Her small suitcase, a worn blue leather case tied with her mother’s ribbon, felt too heavy in her hands. Each footstep down the gangplank thudded louder than it should have, echoing through her chest as much as the dock.

A black carriage waited nearby, rigid and formal, its wooden frame trimmed in tarnished metal. Emblazoned on the door was a strange crest—a lion encircled by curling vines.

A tall, expressionless man approached. He wore a long black coat and gloves, his hair neatly combed, his face unreadable.

“Mademoiselle Odette,” he said, bowing his head slightly. His accent was thick, foreign to her ear. “Yer faither is expecting ye. I am Malcolm, the house butler.”

She offered a shy, halting “Bonjour,” barely above a whisper.

He did not return the greeting. Instead, he reached for her case.

“I can carry it,” she said quickly, some part of her wanting to assert herself, to hold onto one small thread of control.

“Aye,” he replied, taking it regardless. “But ye willnae.”

She followed him in silence, her footsteps muffled by the wet earth.

Inside the carriage, the upholstery was stiff and cold. She folded her hands in her lap, posture perfect, chin high—like her governess had taught her. But her eyes remained fixed to the small window, watching the countryside roll past like a dream she wasn’t part of. The hills were wide and grey-green, dotted with sheep and stone fences. The sky loomed endlessly above, a pale wash of silver.

She missed the golden warmth of France. She missed the sound of bread crust cracking open. She missed the scent of lavender and the steady cadence of voices she understood.

Four days since she’d seen her governess. Her father’s letters had been frequent and affectionate—ink-smudged, always ending with promises—but it had been nearly two years since she had seen him. He had remarried. A Scottish woman named Sheona. Odette had practiced the name in secret, over and over. But it always sounded like flint between her teeth.

The house rose like a relic from the hill.

Not quite a castle, but close. Its dark stone walls were coated in ivy, and the roofline cut sharp against the sky. The windows were long and narrow, recessed like eyes. Two stone griffins flanked the grand entrance, their mouths frozen mid-snarl.

The carriage halted. Malcolm stepped out and opened the door, offering a gloved hand.

“Welcome tae Beaumont House,” he said.

She stepped down cautiously, boots crunching against the gravel. The air smelled of ash and peat, of something earthy and old. She wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

A man stood at the top of the stairs.

Familiar.

“Papa!” she cried, voice breaking.

She dropped her suitcase and ran. Her braid bounced against her back. Her legs, unsteady on the voyage, found speed as if her body remembered its way home.

He caught her mid-leap, arms wrapping tight around her waist. His coat smelled like pipe smoke and worn parchment. His beard brushed her cheek like bristles. Her heart opened.

“Ma petite,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Mon coeur. Look at you. You have grown like the wild roses of summer.”

She burrowed against him, desperate for his warmth, for the solidity of him. He was here. Real. Solid. She felt like she might dissolve if she let go.

“I missed you,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“And I, you. Every day since I left.”

He set her down gently, brushing windblown hair from her brow. “Taller, no? And your mother’s eyes. The same frown when you’re trying not to cry.”

She laughed, embarrassed, and swiped at her eyes.

Then she felt it.

A presence.

She turned slowly.

At the top of the stairs, standing just beyond the threshold of the house, was a woman. She was tall and composed, her dress a deep forest green. Her dark auburn hair was pulled so tightly from her face it gave her an expression of severity. Her smile was slight, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her hands were folded in front of her.

Odette knew instantly that this was Sheona. There was nothing warm in her posture. Nothing soft. Her beauty was precise, calculated.

Odette stepped slightly closer to her father.

For a moment, it was as if nothing had changed. But then he drew back. His hands, strong and rough, stayed at her shoulders, anchoring her in the hush that followed.

“Ma petite,” he said, his voice softened by memory. He crouched to her level, searching her face. “No one will ever take the place of your maman. You know that. She was… irreplaceable.”

Odette nodded, though her chin trembled. The soft weight of those words curled into her like a ribbon, sad and sweet. She didn’t fully understand them, but she wanted to believe them. Her father had always spoken in truths too large for her to hold all at once. Still, she nodded. That was what daughters did.

He pressed onward, gently. “But sometimes, when the heart has known sorrow, it learns to carry joy again. Not the same joy—but a new kind. You will understand one day, when you are older.”

Odette wasn’t sure she wanted a new kind. She wanted the old kind, the kind that smelled of lemon soap and sang lullabies in French. But she nodded again. Her fingers gripped the fabric of his coat with the desperation of someone trying to hold on to what remained.

He rose and turned to the woman who had been waiting, half in shadow.

“Odette,” he said carefully, “this is Sheona.”

Sheona came forward, her steps deliberate. She lowered herself into a crouch with a poise that reminded Odette of statues—elegant, unmoving, cold.

“Hello, Odette,” she said. Her French was passable, but her voice held none of the softness of the language. It was too precise.

Odette dipped her head politely. She did not smile, not yet. But she stepped forward when her father gave the smallest nod.

Sheona’s embrace came too quickly. It was practiced, unnatural in its choreography. Her arms wrapped around Odette tightly—too tightly. The fabric of her bodice smelled of lilies and something metallic, like jewelry left out in the rain. Odette felt the pressure of the woman’s ribs, the tension in her shoulders. This was not the softness of her mother’s touch. This was something else.

“Ye are lovelier than I imagined,” Sheona murmured. “So delicate.”

Odette pulled away and blinked. “Merci, Madame.”

Her father smiled, proud. “Sheona has prepared everything for your arrival. The room, your books, even a few sweets.”

Odette forced a smile and turned toward Sheona again. “You look very elegant,” she offered, in her best polite French. “Like someone from a painting.”

Sheona’s eyes narrowed slightly, but her lips curled upward. “What a lovely thing tae say.”

Footsteps clattered on the stairs.

Two girls appeared, descending quickly. One was taller, with pale gold hair tied back in an elaborate braid and a faint, curious smile. The other trailed just behind, her auburn curls bouncing, her expression sharp and sizing.

“And these,” said her father, gesturing with pride, “are your new sisters. Vivienne and Celeste.”

Vivienne curtsied. “Bonjour,” she said in halting French, the accent harsh. “Welcome tae Scotland.”

Celeste folded her arms. “She’s not as tall as I thought. Papa said she was nearly ten.”

“I am ten,” Odette said, blinking.

Celeste turned her head. “Dinnae look it.”

“Celeste,” Sheona said, her tone flat with warning, but the girl only smirked.

Vivienne stepped forward. “We’re going tae the garden,” she said. “Maman says it’s good tae get fresh air.”

Odette hesitated, unsure whether that was an invitation.

Her father rested a hand on her head. “Go on, ma chérie. Play with your sisters. The sun’s still out, and the garden is safe.”

She looked down at her shoes. The laces were crooked; one had loosened on the walk from the carriage. Her stockings sagged slightly. Her dress, though carefully chosen, was wrinkled from travel. Her fingers clutched at the edge of her sleeve.

“Can I leave my suitcase in my room first?”

“Of course,” he said. “Malcolm will see to it.”

She turned and followed the girls. They did not wait. Their skirts flared as they hurried through the corridor, whispering to each other in quick, breathless bursts. Odette’s smaller steps forced her to skip now and then to keep up.

The back doors opened into a garden that looked like it had once been drawn from a fairytale. But now that story had ended. The rose bushes were unruly. The hedges overgrown. Lavender and heather crowded the paths. Wild bees danced between blossoms.

Celeste darted toward a crooked swing and shouted, “Ye can sit if ye want! But the bench is wet.”

“Yes,” Vivienne echoed. “Ye can watch.”

Then they were gone—laughing, swinging, racing in circles that did not include her.

Odette remained where she was, caught in a pause she didn’t know how to step out of. The sun warmed her shoulders. A breeze fluttered the edges of her sleeves. Her new sisters’ voices lifted and echoed across the garden like birds in flight.

She moved to the bench and sat carefully, tucking her dress beneath her. The wood was indeed damp. She felt it soak through her stockings. But she didn’t stand.

Sheona’s hug still lingered. Her words, too, with their polished sweetness. Odette’s mind tried to sift through what felt strange. The house was grand. The garden full. But something within her remained unsure.

She watched the clouds drift, white and careless. A bee landed near her foot. She tucked her hands beneath her knees. She would be good. She would be sweet. That was what girls like her were meant to be.

But already, the world felt different.

Already, she felt alone.

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Chapter One

Beaumont Estate, 1715

Odette Beaumont was already on her feet, toes brushing the cold stone floor as she tugged her dressing gown tighter, the morning sun not yet generous with its warmth. Her long, blonde hair was still half-pinned, the rest tumbling in stubborn waves down her back, and she had not yet touched the basin of water meant to greet her waking. There was no time. There never was.

She yanked open the shutters to a dawn streaked in silver, the light glinting across the wide, lonely land she was forced to call home. The Beaumont estate stretched beyond what the eye could measure, but it was land slowly being choked by darkness and decay. But that morning, their salvation would come in the form of Nevil Hillam.

Even the name clanged in her head like iron dropped onto marble. He was due to arrive by noon, a man with enough property to silence most councilmen, and just enough charm to pass for appealing, though Odette had never seen him in person. She had only heard of him from Sheona’s lips, while her stepmother taught her daughters, over afternoon tea, all the ways to trap a man like him.

Odette moved quickly, folding out of her sleep-wrinkled linens with military precision. Her gown slid off her shoulders in one swift motion, and she dressed in a cream working dress, before her hair was fully secured with a blue ribbon behind her head. She left her room without ceremony, door swinging wide as she strode into the corridor. The floorboards groaned underfoot, but she didn’t wince. She’d grown used to those groans. If the house wasn’t complaining, she’d worry it had finally given up.

Nevil owned the land that pressed against the Beaumont estate borders. If his acres married theirs, they might finally tear their lands from the Galbraith clan’s grasp. That was the current Beaumont strategy, the one Odette had overheard Sheona preparing for the past few years.

In the grand hall, the light through the arched windows bled golden across the dusty floors. She paused, taking stock.

That was where Nevil would first step foot. She saw it clearly—the muddy boot prints, the scuffs on the wainscotting, the way the dust danced in the morning light, ready to betray every untended surface.

And Odette, the sole biological Beaumont daughter, had been reduced to little more than a maid. A head maid at best, accountable for every speck of dust that dared settle on any surface. Today, of all days, everything had to be flawless.

Sheona had always insisted that the inheritance left behind by her father, the late Louis Beaumont, was hers alone to manage. Not one coin, not a parcel, had been left in Odette’s name. “Yer faither didnae believe in daughters as heirs,” Sheona had once said with a smug shrug, draped in mourning silk that had cost enough to feed the tenants for half a year.

Odette had accepted it at the time. She had been young, scared and foolishly obedient, her grief over her father’s death leaving no room to consider the consequences of being left penniless and alone.

With a deep breath, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. Her arms started to ache halfway through sweeping, but she pressed on. The rugs were beaten, the banisters polished until they reflected her face. In the dining hall, she rearranged the chairs three times before they felt right, then set to polishing the silver until it gleamed like a second sun. She opened the tall windows, letting in the scent of summer-laced grass and the soft rustle of garden life.

The garden. It needed to be perfect.

A picnic had been suggested by Sheona with her usual flippant grace, a casual thing said with a velvet-bound voice. But it meant more work. Odette paced through the hedgerows and flower beds, rearranging cushions, checking for bees’ nests in the seats, retying the canopies in tighter knots, pulling weeds with her bare hands.

By the time she finished, her palms were streaked with green, her back damp from effort. Still, she couldn’t stop. She rushed inside, carefully washing and drying her feet before, to avoid smudging the pristine floors, then made her way to the kitchen. Her stomach growled once, but she ignored it. The cook should have been halfway through the preparations by now.

Instead, she was met with chaos.

“Didnae I tell ye, ye fumble-fingered nyaff?” The cook’s voice cracked like a whip across the kitchen, aimed at some cowering maid.

The cook’s face was the color of overripe plums from the oven’s blistering heat and a lifetime of shouted orders. Arms thick as rolling pins carved through the flour-dusted air, sending clouds swirling in their wake as she bellowed at the staff.

Her two assistants scrambled about like cornered hens, all twitchy limbs and darting glances, their aprons flapping as if the devil himself were at their heels. The clang of copper pots dueled with the hiss of boiling stock, but the cook’s voice cut through it all, like razored steel against the kitchen’s roar. Then those flinty eyes locked on Odette.

A derisive snort escaped her before she made a failed attempt at composing herself. “Dinnae look at me like that, Miss Odette. I told the girls yesterday—we’re out o’ nutmeg, we’re out o’ sugar, and the butcher delivered lamb instead o’ quail. Lamb! Fer a picnic!”

Odette didn’t blink. “Give me the list.”

Cook blinked, startled. “Ye’ll go yerself?”

“Unless you’d like to present roasted lamb for the picnic.”

The cook thrust the list at her, muttering under her breath, and Odette turned on her heel and headed toward the grand entrance. She was halfway to the door, breath already picking up with the anticipation of a sprint to town, when two high-pitched voices trilled down the hall.

“Odette!”

“Odette! Wait!”

Celeste first, all powdered cheeks and manicured hands, followed by Vivienne with her sharp eyes and the silken sneer she thought was subtle. They were already impeccably dressed, with corsets too tight, hair pinned in elaborate nests and lips like bleeding cherries. Odette stilled. She knew that tone, and she cursed herself for not leaving the house a little earlier, before they’d had a chance to see her leave.

Vivienne reached her first. “Ye’ve nae fixed the hem o’ me gown, and I want it ready fer the luncheon before—”

Celeste interrupted, “And I cannae find the sapphire comb. The one we brought back from Elmsport? I need it. And the ribbon box—have ye even looked? I told ye days ago.”

“Ye havenae cleaned me room,” Vivienne added, as if the realization offended her.

Celeste brightened. “Or mine! And Maither said we should each bring a token fer Mr. Hillam. Something thoughtful. Like poetry, maybe? Or an embroidered kerchief? Ye can dae one fer each o’ us. Ye’re good with thread.”

“And words.”

The list spiraled impossibly fast, like a fever dream. Odette did not flinch. She stood very still, the market list in her fingers like a blade.

“If you keep me here, there will be no food on the table when Mr. Hillam arrives. There will be no tokens, no hemmed gowns, no sapphire combs—no picnic.” Odette finally interrupted them, raising a hand to silence their chatter as she struggled to contain her frustration. Losing her temper would only make matters worse.

Vivienne’s brows lifted. “Well, someone’s in a mood.”

“Dinnae take that tone with us,” Celeste huffed. “If ye speak tae us like that again, we’ll tell Mther. Ye ken what that means.”

A flicker of pain, deep in the spine. A ghost-memory of leather across skin, of welts hidden beneath dresses. Odette met their eyes squarely.

“Do what you must. As will I.” And she pushed past them before either could reply.

Outside, the morning had warmed. The sun found her skin, kissing the sheen of sweat that coated her neck and collarbone. The sky stretched open above her, and her boots hit the gravel path with purposeful rhythm. She felt the familiar ache of fury in her chest—a low, ever-burning heat that she had learned to breathe around.

The wind caught her hair as she stepped onto the main road, tugging strands free from the ribbon she’d tied low behind her neck. She didn’t bother to fix it. The market waited for her, and her time was already borrowed. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and kept her gaze steady, her steps sure.

The town wore suspicion like a second skin. It clung to the buildings, weather-worn and squat, and to the faces of the people who watched from behind carts and cracked shutters. Odette knew how they saw her. Her features were too delicate, her posture too straight, her cheeks too sharply carved, her tongue too quick. She was too foreign to blend in with them—too French. And the town hated the French.

It didn’t matter that she had lived in the Highlands since she was fourteen. It didn’t matter that she had earned her keep and held her tongue. Her voice betrayed her the moment she opened her mouth. Her vowels had edges. So, she spoke as little as she could.

Every errand was a tightrope. The Galbraith lands bristled with men who polished their muskets like sacred relics and saw rebellion in every stranger’s glance. Their hatred of outsiders ran deep as their peat bogs, and they had no patience for women who didn’t know their place. Especially not foreign women with French and Jacobite blood whispering through their veins.

Odette never bowed.

She kept her eyes forward and her steps quick. The grocer’s stall stood first in her path. Lemons. Soft cheese. She pushed open the shop door, its bell jingling with false cheer.

“Well now, good day tae ye, miss.” The grocer’s son leaned against the counter, broad shoulders straining his linen shirt, a smirk playing about his mouth that suggested he found himself endlessly amusing. His gaze swept over her like she was a cut of meat on display. “What can I dae fer ye today?”

She said nothing. Simply raised one finger and pointed to the yellow citrus stacked in woven baskets. His smirk faltered. An awkward beat passed before he huffed and began bagging the lemons, his thick fingers denting their waxy skins.

When she pointed next to the cheese, a creamy round wrapped in muslin, he snatched it up without meeting her eyes this time, his earlier charm curdling into irritation.

Coins clinked against the counter as she paid. As he counted out her change, she caught his muttered words, “Bloody odd, some folk…”

The insult hung in the air between them, sour as the lemons in her basket.

Odette pocketed the change without reaction. Pride was for those who could afford it—for women who hadn’t been whipped by their stepmothers two days prior.

The baker was next. The girl behind the counter wouldn’t meet her eye. That was fine. Odette didn’t need friendship. She needed flour. It wasn’t until she reached the end of the row of shops, where the butcher’s stood with its sagging sign and smoke-scented walls, that she allowed herself to breathe more deeply.

Maria, the butcher’s wife, greeted her with a warm smile from behind the counter, hands still dusted with salt. Her dark hair was pulled back in a braid, her apron worn through at the hips. She looked tired, but kind. She was always kind.

“Ye look flustered today,” Maria said, wiping her hands on a cloth.

“It’s been quite a day today,” Odette replied with a faint smile. “I have come to buy some quails, for the picnic.”

The two children—Niall and little Tom—darted out from the back room like arrows. Tom hugged Odette’s legs with the enthusiasm of a pup, and she reached down to ruffle his hair. Niall simply grinned at her from behind a row of smoked sausages.

“How is the madhouse today?” Maria asked, moving behind the counter and beginning to wrap parcels.

Odette exhaled through her nose. “Vivienne has a list of demands for me before noon, Celeste is looking for fine jewels, and Mr. Hillam arrives by noon.”

“May the saints protect ye.”

“They’ve stopped answering me letters.”

Maria laughed. The sound was rough and real. It softened Odette in places inside her soul she didn’t realize had gone stiff.

“Still thinking o’ running off?” Maria asked after a moment, quieter now. More cautious.

Odette looked at her, then glanced at the children, who were busy poking at a jar of pickled onions. “I’ve sent a letter,” she said softly. “To my aunt in Lyon.”

Maria stilled. Her dark brows drew together. “That aunt? The one with the bakery near the port?”

“The same. I don’t know if she still lives there. Or if she still thinks of me as family. But if she does…”

Maria nodded. “She will.”

“I asked her for help. A place to stay. Funds, if she can spare them.”

“And if she daesnae reply?”

Odette wrapped her arms across her chest. “Then I will think again. But I had to try.”

Maria looked at her for a long time, then passed over the wrapped parcel of meats and dry sausages. “Ye deserve more than that house. More than scraps and silence.”

“We all do.”

The door creaked open behind them. Three men stepped inside.

They were not locals. Odette knew that before they spoke by the way they carried themselves, like they expected space to be cleared for them. Their coats were long, travel-stained, their boots laced in a style she hadn’t seen in months. One of them, taller than the others, had a scar across his chin that looked recent.

“We need supplies,” the tallest said, voice low and hard. “Dry meats. Cuts that keep. And nay fuss.”

Maria’s smile faltered. “Aye. I’ve some salted pork and beef left from last week.”

The man gave her a cursory nod, eyes already moving over the room. When they landed on Odette, they paused.

“Ye from here?” he asked.

Odette met his gaze evenly, then nodded.

The man stepped closer. Not threatening, exactly. But not friendly either. “Where from?”

“Nearby,” she said. Clear. Calm.

He stared at her for a moment longer, then snorted. Maria moved quickly, placing a wrapped parcel on the counter.

“Here. That should hold ye through the week. It’s all I have until Friday.”

The men exchanged a glance. The one with the scar dropped coins on the wood, never looking away from Odette. Then, the man smiled, slow and ugly. But he turned and walked toward the door. The three of them left without another word and the door shut behind them like a falling axe.

Maria exhaled. “Saints. Odette—”

“I know.”

Maria reached across the counter and touched her hand. “Just go home. Dinnae linger too long.”

Odette nodded. She gathered the parcels, kissed both children and stepped back into the wind.

Chapter Two

Odette clutched the heavy parcels against her chest, her shawl slipping down her shoulder as she half-walked, half-ran down the lane, boots thudding against the damp earth. She cursed herself under her breath for wasting time, though the words came out in little puffs of steam. Idiot. Foolish, chattering idiot. What had possessed her to stay so long? Laughing with Maria like she hadn’t a thousand things left to do. As if that day wasn’t the day the entire household had been waiting for months.

The wind had picked up, dragging the clouds back across the sky and throwing a veil over the sun. Her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm beneath her collarbone, each beat painting the same damning picture of Sheona in the great hall, prematurely lighting the beeswax candles, while Vivienne and Celeste would be draped over their mother’s chaise by now, pouting through rosebud lips about how Odette hadn’t braided their hair with the pearl pins, how the lace at their cuffs hung crooked without her fingers to set it right.

And Nevil Hillam—

The thought struck like icy water. Nevil’s carriage would crest the eastern road in mere hours.

“Damn it,” she muttered, quickening her steps, her boots slipping on the moss-lined cobbles as she veered into a narrower street. Her breath caught sharp in her chest. It wasn’t far now. Just across the green, down the slope. She could be home in twenty minutes if she walked fast.

She was halfway through rearranging her to-do list in her mind—flowers first, then set the table, help Elise with the linens, reheat the broth—when she heard it.

Footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate, just a beat behind her own. She didn’t turn around. Not at first. There were always footsteps behind her in town, weren’t there? People walking, going about their day, minding their business. But something didn’t feel… right. They didn’t match the rhythm of the street. She could hear the click of her own boots, the rustling of her skirts and the echo of something heavier.

Her spine stiffened.

She told herself not to be silly. Town was busy today, as always was on market mornings, and the air smelled of smoked herring and damp wool. Nothing bad could happen in ordinary daylight.

She glanced over her shoulder. Just a flick of her eyes. They were there. The same three men from the shop.

They weren’t near enough to touch her. Not within arm’s reach, and yet they were still too close. Far too close for men who should have been halfway to the tavern by now, considering she’d deliberately lingered in the shop until their footsteps had faded five minutes past.

Sunlight carved their features into something unfamiliar. Indoors, they’d been just rough-faced laborers; out here, the glare sharpened them like knives on a whetstone. The dark-haired one who had spoken to her at the shop, taller than his companions, with a nose that hooked sharply to the left, wasn’t merely smiling. His lips peeled back from teeth that looked too white, too even, in a face weathered by wind and work. It wasn’t a smile at all. It was a predator’s grimace, twisting his already harsh features into something grotesque. The kind of expression that made a woman’s palms sweat and her throat tighten, though she couldn’t say why.

One of the others, shorter and broader, said something low and guttural. The dark-haired man’s smirk widened, and for one terrible second, Odette imagined she could smell the ale on their breath, even across the distance between them.

She snapped her head forward and kept walking, faster now, steps clipped and uneven, eyes fixed on the narrow path ahead.

Don’t panic. You’re imagining things.

She turned down a darker lane. It was narrower than the others, a shortcut only locals used, with crooked little garden gates and several cats underfoot. She hadn’t meant to take it. Her feet had done it without asking her permission. But now that she was there, she tried to see it as a stroke of luck. If they were just going her way, they wouldn’t follow her here. They’d go the long way around, as any normal traveler might.

The road twisted. She passed the blacksmith’s shed, empty at this hour, and a cart of rotten apples, buzzing with flies. She let herself breathe again.

She glanced back. They were still there. All three of them. And they were getting closer.

Her fingers clenched around the string of the package so hard it bit into her skin. She turned down another path. One that made no sense unless you were from there—narrower than the previous, with uneven stones and thorns clawing at your legs. No stranger would know to follow it.

But they did and their boots slapped the stones, louder now. Her chest tightened. She wasn’t imagining it. She was not imagining it.

She sped up. Her arms ached from the weight of the parcels, but she didn’t stop. Her thoughts tangled into knots. Who were they? Why her? She hadn’t looked at them. Hadn’t said a word. Had she done anything to upset them?

She turned again, sharper this time, nearly losing her footing on a patch of gravel. She passed the old garden wall, ducked beneath the low-hanging tree where the crows always nested, and darted into the alley beside the milliner’s, which was narrow enough to make her shoulders brush brick.

When she emerged on the other side, she broke into a run.

The parcels were a hindrance. She clutched them tighter, arms burning, feet slipping, heartbeat hammering so loud she thought it might betray her. But she didn’t stop. Don’t look back. Just move. But she did look. They were running too. And they were faster than her.

No, no, no—

A loose stone caught her foot. She stumbled, arms flailing to catch balance. One bundle tumbled from her grip.

She didn’t even stop to mourn it. She sprinted, still carrying the other parcels.

Skirts flying, loose hair whipping her cheeks, breath ragged in her throat. Her home was still so far, and her feet ached, and the world was too loud.

She turned another corner. Dead end. She skidded to a halt, chest heaving, eyes wild.

No. Not here. Not here.

She spun around. They were there, blocking the only way out. They were silent now, grin gone from the tall one’s face. She backed up against the wall, fingers outstretched behind her, as if the cold stone might offer a way out. Her breath came in frantic bursts, her lungs too small, her heart too loud.

The tallest one spoke.

“Ye dropped yer things,” the words rolled out in a thick brogue, though she couldn’t place the region. Not that it mattered. There was no kindness in that voice, only a rough amusement that put her teeth on edge. She knew the accent well enough, though her own tongue could never wrap around those guttural vowels.

She didn’t answer.

The third one stepped forward. Blond, scruffy. His nose looked like it had been broken and badly set. “Bit o’ a rush, aren’t ye? Something wrong?”

“Yes,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure they heard her.

The dark-haired one stepped into the center. “Funny how yer people always seem tae run when it’s time tae answer fer what they’ve done.”

Odette blinked. “What?”

He didn’t repeat himself.

“Ye live in that big house on the hill, dinnae ye?” asked the blond one, voice too casual. “With all the little silver spoons and the paintings o’ men who never bled a day in their lives.”

She didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Her voice had hidden somewhere beneath her ribs.

“Me land,” the dark one said, “used tae stretch as far as I could see. Me father built it. Me grandfather fought fer it. And yer fine French soldiers burned it tae ash.”

“Me maither,” added the third, quietest of the three, “died with yer flag above her.”

Odette shook her head. “I—I haven’t done anything. I don’t—my family hasn’t—”

“Yer family has,” said the tall one. “They all have. And ye wear their name.”

He stepped closer. Odette’s back hit the stone, as her fingers scraped rough brick and her heart beat so fast it was a war drum in her ears.

“We’ve waited a long time,” he said. “And now it’s time someone paid.”

Odette’s breath left her lungs in a sharp gasp.

The nearest man grabbed her by the upper arm, his grip vice-like and punishing. Another seized a handful of her hair, jerking her head back so suddenly her neck cracked. A small cry escaped her, shrill and desperate. She kicked at one of them—whoever had his hand at her waist—and he swore, grabbing her tighter. It all happened so fast. Her bundles fell to the ground, parcels bursting open.

“Let me go!” she screamed, twisting in their hold, nails clawing at their arms. She tried to bite one—anything to get them off—but they were too many and too strong for her to take on. Their laughter was cruel and close to her ear, their breath reeking of stale drink and old anger. Rough hands yanked at her shawl, another at the laces of her bodice. Her mind flooded with panic.

This is happening.

It didn’t feel real. It was as if she’d been dropped into someone else’s nightmare, someone else’s pain. Her limbs flailed in a hopeless attempt to break free. She kicked, scratched, screamed again. They slapped a hand over her mouth, but she bit it hard, drawing blood.

“Ye filthy little—!” one of them hissed.

A hand tangled in her hair, and with one wrenching pull, her ribbon snapped loose. The silk fluttered to the ground like a white flag of surrender. But she wasn’t surrendering. Not yet. Not ever. She didn’t stop fighting. Her voice cracked as she tried again to scream for help, her throat raw with the effort.

And then—

“Who’s there?”

A man’s voice, deep and cutting through the chaos like a blade. Not close, but not too far either.

Odette screamed again, louder this time. “Help!” Her voice split the quiet of the alley, bright with desperation. One of the men cursed, slapped her across the cheek hard enough to make her vision white out.

“Shut ‘er up!”

“I hear ye!” the voice came again, nearer now.

Odette fought harder, tasted blood in her mouth, tears streaming freely down her face.

Footsteps. Fast. And then—he was there.

At first, she didn’t know what she was seeing. Just a tall figure, broad and cloaked in shadows, standing at the mouth of the alley with a drawn sword.

“Step away from her,” he said, voice low and deadly.

The men froze. One of them laughed nervously. “And who the hell are ye supposed tae be?”

He took a step forward, sunlight catching on the blade.

“Yer final mistake.”

Then it all happened at once.

The stranger moved with terrifying precision. He disarmed the first man in a single motion, elbowed the second hard enough to send him crashing into a wall. The third ran for him with a dagger, only to find himself flat on his back in the mud within seconds, the weapon skidding away.

Odette crouched against the wall, clutching her arms around herself as the sounds of fists and bone and metal rang out in sickening rhythm. She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t even breathe.

He moved like a controlled but ferocious storm, effortless but wrathful. She couldn’t make out his face clearly, but every line of his body spoke of power, of danger wrapped in grace. The man appeared like something born of storm and legends. Every flex of his muscle, every controlled shift of weight speaking of power that hummed beneath his skin. Where other men lumbered or stumbled, he flowed, his body obeying some silent rhythm only he could hear. Sunlight caught his sharp jawline as he fought, and for one breathless moment, Odette forgot how to think.

Magnificent.

The word burned through her like whisky, leaving her throat tight. He was something primal. As if the old tales of warriors blessed by God had taken flesh before her. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Within moments, it was done.

The men groaned on the ground, one crawling, another unconscious. The third tried to get up, but the stranger placed a boot on his back and pressed him down.

“Tell yer friends,” he said quietly. “And if I ever see ye near her again, ye’ll regret drawing breath.”

The man whimpered. The stranger let him go. Odette still hadn’t moved.

He turned to her slowly, sword now lowered, his voice softened. “Are ye hurt?”

She blinked up at him, her mind trying to connect thoughts that wouldn’t hold. Her body was shaking, her breath came in short bursts. Her lip stung, her scalp burned where the man had yanked her hair.

“I’m—” She tried to nod. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t argue. Just looked at her a moment, then glanced at the basket she’d dropped in the scuffle. Loaves spilled, the meat parcel burst open and leaking across the stones. He crouched without a word. His movements were unhurried, not delicate exactly, but careful. Intentional.

She watched as he brushed dirt from one of the loaves with his bare hand, rewrapped the meat with surprising precision, and set them back inside the basket. Then, still kneeling, he pulled a clean, pale linen handkerchief from his coat pocket and unfolded it.

“Ye’re bleedin’,” he murmured, not quite meeting her eyes. “May I?”

Odette opened her mouth, unsure what she meant to say. Her hands were still trembling, but she gave the smallest nod.

He rose slowly and stepped close enough that the heat of him reached her, warmth radiating off his coat, his skin, the steam of his breath in the cooling afternoon. When he reached for her lip, he didn’t touch her. Just held the cloth near her mouth, offering it. Waiting.

She took it with shaking fingers. But when she pressed it to her mouth, her hand faltered. Without thinking, he caught her wrist. Not to still her, just to steady it. His grip was surprisingly gentle, calloused skin against hers.

Her heart stuttered. He guided her hand just slightly, then let go, as if the brief contact had been too much.

God, those hands.

Capable of wielding a broadsword yet now helping her tend a cut no deeper than a papercut with the reverence of a priest at altar. Roughened by war, but startlingly kind. Veins traced rivers of strength beneath sun-bronzed skin, the pulse at his wrist steady where hers fluttered wild as a caged bird. The brush of skin against skin sent a spark up her arm.

His shadowed, dark grey eyes lingered on her. He was tall. Not just tall, formidable. The kind of man who carried weight simply by standing still. His jaw was cut like stone, and his eyes, though unreadable, bore the gravity of someone who’d seen too much but feared nothing.

Odette’s breath caught. This strange flutter in her chest that had no place in this moment.

“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” she whispered, brushing the tears from her cheeks. Her voice was hoarse. “I was just… heading home.”

She stood too quickly. Her knees buckled, and she nearly stumbled. He reached for her instinctively, one hand at her elbow, but she flinched.

“I’m fine,” she said again, too fast, too sharp.

He stepped back. Her hands shook as she patted her skirts, trying to gather whatever scraps of composure remained. Her ribbon lay in the dirt, but she left it. The thought of bending down, of presenting her back to anyone, even though he was her savior, made her stomach twist

“Thank you,” she said, eyes fixed on the ground. “For helping me.”

“I couldnae ignore yer screams.”

God, that voice. It rolls through me like low thunder before a storm.

“No,” she murmured. “I suppose not.”

She moved past him, legs stiff, shoes crunching on the gravel. She had to leave. Now. Before the tears started again. Before the fear made its way back in. She didn’t give him her name.

The alley spilled out into a narrow street, and she kept walking, faster now, turning sharply left and then right again. She didn’t look back, despite wanting to.

But she heard him.

“Wait—”

Her heart jumped. She kept walking.

“Miss—please—”

She broke into a jog, slipping between two houses, her body moving on instinct. She didn’t know why she ran. He had saved her, not hurt her, but her mind no longer had any trace of rationality. Her fear had roots, and they were deep.

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1578, MacGregor Castle

Craig Ainsley stood along the wall just left of the raised dais. He had escorted the Lady Evelyn Campbell to meet with her intended. He had remained to guard and watch over her as the particulars of the marriage were worked out. With her uncle having died, this union was imperative to secure the future of the clan. Craig knew his duty and performed it with the utmost vigilance. The one distraction that he had not counted on was the raven haired, emerald eyed sister of the Lady Evelyn’s intended.

From the first moment that he had laid eyes on the Lady Morgana MacGregor, Craig knew that his life would never be the same. She was a stunning beauty beyond compare. She had a fire in her soul that blazed within her eyes. Her gaze was intoxicating and caused Craig’s body to instantly jump to attention. When the Lady Morgana entered the room, every man’s eyes turned to look at her. Despite being the beauty she was, she behaved as if she had no notion of the effect that she had upon the male species.

As if his thoughts of her had summoned her, the Lady Morgana entered the room and glided across the great hall to the dais. She sat down beside the Lady Evelyn and smiled warmly in greeting. The two women already knew each other, for the Lady Evelyn had been promised to the MacGregor heir, James, but that marriage had fallen through. She was now promised to the second in line, Edward. The women began to talk but Craig was too far away to hear their conversation over the din of all those gathered. In spite of himself, he could not tear his eyes away from her. A platter of apple tarts was set down in front of her and she smiled, biting into one of them with pure delight on her face. Tae be that apple tart…

 “A bonnie lass, aye?” Brodie Campbell, his most trusted man, came to stand beside him against the wall.

“Aye,” Craig agreed. He turned his eyes to Brodie. “What is yer report?”

“All is well. There have been nay incidents that warrant concern,” Brodie replied. He leaned back against the wall, scanning the assemblage.

“Aye,” Craig agreed. He eyed the laird’s family sitting upon the dais. “Keep a vigilant eye regardless.”

“Aye,” Brodie agreed. “Looks like ye are keeping a vigilant eye enough for all o’ us,” he teased, with a sparkle of amusement in his eyes.

Craig shot him a look. “She is nae meant fer the likes o’ me.”

“Ye underestimate yer worth, me friend,” Brodie reproached him. “Any lass would be blessed indeed tae have ye fer a husband.”

“I have naething tae offer her or any other lass. Ye ken that well enough.”

Brodie shook his head. “Ye are a councilman of the Clan Campbell. Ye are a respected warrior o’ renown. Ye have much tae offer.”

“A lady o’ her standing should wed a laird, nae a lowly bastard such as I,” Craig argued.

“Have ye even spoken tae her? Perhaps she feels differently on the matter.”

“Brodie, me friend, I appreciate yer words, but they are fer nae.”

Brodie shook his head. “As ye say.” He stood up, moving way from the wall. “I will return tae our men but bear me words tae mind. Ye are worthy o’ any lass, nay matter if she is a laird’s daughter.” Brodie walked away, his words ringing in Craig’s ears.

When the evening meal was over, the Lady Evelyn retired tae her bedchamber. Craig set two of his men tae stand guard over her and went out to the stable tae check on the horses. He walked over to the stall with his favorite horse and grabbed a brush. He entered it and ran the brush over the silken hide. “She is a bonnie lass,” a feminine voice praised.

Craig looked up to find the Lady Morgana standing in front of the stall beside him. She reached out and patted the forehead of the horse next to his. “Aye, a bonnie lass indeed,” he agreed, his words carrying more meaning than she knew.

“Daes she have a name?” The Lady Morgana turned her stunning green eyes to meet his gaze.

“Aye, Epona is her name.”

“After the goddess o’ horses?”

“Aye, one and the same,” Craig nodded.

“It suits her.” Morgana smiled in approval.

“Aye, I thought so.” Craig smiled back at her. Her smile was contagious. The moment grew warm with tension as their shared gaze turned intimate. Morgana looked away, blushing slightly. It suddenly occurred to Craig that they were alone and unchaperoned in the stables together at night. “Me lady, it is nae seemly fer ye tae be here alone with me like this. Ye should return tae the great hall.”

Morgana turned back to glare at him with fire in her eyes. “Who are ye tae tell me what I should and should nae dae?”

To Craig’s chagrin, she was even more beautiful when she was fierce. “I wouldnae presume tae dae such a thing, me lady. I am simply concerned fer yer reputation.”

“There is nay need tae fash o’er me. Allow me tae be concerned fer me own wellbeing. Yer concern is fer the Lady Evelyn Campbell, nae I.”

Craig admired her rebellious spirit. He hoped that whoever she wed did not try to break it. “Aye, me concern is fer the Lady Evelyn,” he agreed. “Which is why I ken that a lady o’ yer standing shouldnae be alone with the likes o’ me.”

“The likes o’ ye? Are ye a rogue, Craig Ainsley?”

Craig laughed. “Nae quite, me lady.”

“Dae ye intend me harm?”

“I would never harm ye, me lady.” The very idea that anyone would harm her caused anger to flare within his chest.

“Then where is the danger?” Her eyes challenged him, snapping and sparkling with energy.

If only ye kenned the truth, lass.

Craig sighed, shaking his head. “The danger is tae yer reputation, nae yer person.”

“Ye let me worry about that. I dinnae believe it tae be right that we ladies must dae everything that the men in our lives tell us tae dae. Ye are nay better than we. Why dae men get tae make all of the decisions?”

Craig shrugged. “I dae believe that the church blames it on Eve.”

Morgana shook her head. “Why should all women be punished fer the actions of one? That has ne’er made sense tae me.”

Craig’s admiration for her grew. He appreciated a woman who could think for herself. “Dinnae let anyone hear ye say that, especially the priests.”

Morgana snorted in a most unladylike fashion that made him laugh outright.

“Are ye laughing at me?” Morgana asked, her eyes fiery with consternation.

“Ye are nae as I expected,” he admitted.

Her expression turned quizzical. “What dae ye mean?”

“Ye have a fire in ye that burns brighter than the sun. It is a rare quality in a person. I admire yer fer yer spirit,” he admitted.

Morgana’s gaze changed to surprise. “Most people dinnae find it so admirable. Me maither especially daesnae believe it tae be so.”

Craig raised a brow in inquiry. “How so?”

“She deems me spirit tae be tae unladylike fer polite society. She wishes fer me tae be demurer, more like her, so that I can find a wealthy, titled husband.”

“What dae ye want?” Craig asked, temporarily forgetting his intention to leave and find her a proper chaperone.

Morgana paused, tilting her head to the side. “Nay one has ever asked me that afore.”

“Well, someone is asking it now.” Craig gave her a kindly smile. “What dae ye want?”

“I dinnae ken fer certain. I ken what I dinnae want, more than what I want. I have nae ever been given a choice in the matter. Me maither has dictated me every move since the day that I was born.”

“What dae ye nae want?” Craig found her to be the most interesting woman that he had ever met.

“I dinnae want an arranged marriage tae some auld, wealthy laird who cares more fer me ability tae produce him an heir than fer me. I dinnae wish tae be sold tae the highest bidder fer the sake o’ propriety. I believe that we women are worth more than being used fer some man’s pleasure.”

Craig bit back a smile. “Ye certainly ken what ye dinnae want, me lady. I am fair impressed.”

Morgana flushed, nodded, and turned to leave the stables. Craig watched her as she left, already regretting her absence. At the doors, she paused and turned her head to look at him one last time. Their eyes met and held for the briefest of moments, saying things that their mouths could not, then she turned and disappeared from sight.

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Chapter One

1580, Scotland
Morgana MacGregor closed her eyes and breathed deeply, drinking in the sounds and smells of the forest. She and her clansmen had stopped by a stream to rest and water their horses. The sound of the water burbling over the rocks was a much-needed salve to her wearied soul. She was on her way to Aberdeen to be gawked at and examined like cattle up for sale to the highest bidder. Laird Aberdeen had let it be known that he was interested in marriage and every eligible highborn daughter of age for miles around was being sent by their families for consideration.

May Heaven help the poor wee lass who catches his eye, the filthy mongrel.

Morgana nearly spat in disgust at the idea of being forced to marry such an uncouth swine of a man.

I will nae marry him, nae matter what anyone says.

She thought back to the last gathering of the clans, when she had been so unfortunate as to speak with the laird and shuddered in disgust. His breath had smelled of rot as he had bowed over her hand in courtesy. The words he spoke to her had settled little better, full of self-importance and a hint of perversion. Morgana opened her eyes with another shudder and rubbed her hand as if to remove the memory of his touch.

Stretching her back, she rolled her shoulders, attempting to get four days’ worth of muscle kinks from being on horseback to relax. Wandering downstream, she let the freedom of the forest ease her worried mind. Sunshine broke through the tree canopy overhead, dappling her skin with its spangled light and she reveled in the warmth of it.

I could stay here forever, she thought as a small smile played at the corners of her lips. A squirrel chattered at her from a nearby tree and she winked at its protestations. “Dinnae fash, wee one,” she reassured him. “I will be gone afore long. Just let me rest here a wee while, aye?” As if the squirrel had understood her, it stopped chattering and scurried away. Morgana laughed and continued walking.

“Me lady Morgana,” one of the guards called after her. “Dinnae stray too far. We will be leaving soon.”

Morgana raised a hand in acknowledgement. The men assigned to guard her were twice their normal number and vigilant to the point of annoyance, but she could not blame them. Her family had been through a great deal in recent years and had had their lives threatened more than once. Sighing, Morgana turned back toward her protectors, knowing that they were right to be concerned. A twig snapped behind her and she turned, expecting to see the displeased squirrel once more, only to find an angry faced, unkempt man looming over her. Morgana screamed as he reached for her.

“Me lady!” Morgana heard one of her clansmen cry out in concern for her, but when she turned in hopes of finding her men behind her rushing to her aid, she instead found them engaged in a most gruesome battle of survival as bandits descended upon them from the trees. They were greatly outnumbered and had no way of getting to her in time to save her. She would have to find a way to save herself. She turned back to face her foe, her mind racing. Could reach the sgian dubh under her skirts?

God in Heaven be with me, she prayed as she scrambled for a plan, any plan, to save herself.

“Give me yer jewels,” the bandit barked at her, reaching out his hand, missing the necklace that hung around her neck by a mere whisper of air as Morgana backed away, shaking her head in refusal.

“Me faither gave this tae me. It is precious tae nay one but me. Please,” she entreated as she stumbled backwards, slamming into the chest of another man. She prayed that it was one of her own clansmen, but when she turned her face up to see who was standing over her, she was sorely disappointed.

“Perhaps we will take something of more precious value then,” the second bandit grunted, reaching his hand around to clasp her left breast causing fear and disgust to tear through her entire being.

“Unhand me!” Morgana demanded.

“I will nae,” the man sneered, squeezing her breast harder. “Ye and I will be spending quite a lot o’ time taegether.” The man laughed a hollow sound that made Morgana’s skin crawl so fiercely that she shuddered. She struggled against his grasp, to no avail.

“God help me!” she cried out in desperate prayer.

“Nae God or man will be able tae help ye now.” The man placed his slobbery lips on her neck in a revulsive attempt at seduction.

Morgana looked all around her once more for someone to aid her but saw no one. The sound of swords clashing and men grunting in pain, told her that they were otherwise occupied. She thrashed about, doing everything she could to damage her attacker. The most that she succeeded in doing was to make the man stumble a step, but he did not loosen his grip. While her efforts had been mostly futile, the stumble had caused him to shift his footing. Taking the opportunity, Morgana stomped down hard on her assailant’s toes, wrenching herself free of his lude grasp.

The moment that the man’s grasp loosened, Morgana ran as if her very life depended upon it.

I will nae surrender either me necklace or me virtue tae such loathsome thugs. I will find a way tae escape this misfortune nae matter what it takes.

The sound of pounding feet behind her alerted her to her attacker’s pursuit. She risked looking over her shoulder and found both bandits running after her, exertion, anger, and lust contorting their faces into gruesome red masks of determination.

“Help! Someone help me!” Morgana cried out in distress, while she poured all her energy into running.

She thought about what she could do, her mind racing, to deter her attackers. She could not stop and face her attackers head on as her sgian dubh was no match for the two large men who were pursuing her. She racked her oxygen starved brain as she gasped for air, running for all that she was worth.

What can I dae?!

Fear and exhaustion caused tears to stream down her cheeks.

“Help!” she screamed again, pain coursing through her throat and lungs at the sheer force of it. “Help me!”

Perhaps she could offer the brigands something else of like value to deter them. Feeling a small glimmer of hope, Morgana removed all the other jewelry on her person, except for her necklace, and tossed them away from her into the trees hoping to distract her attackers. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the first man who had confronted her stop to pick the jewelry up from the ground, but the second man kept going. It appeared that he only had eyes for Morgana’s body and what it could offer him.

A fresh streak of terror raced through Morgana’s entire being, causing her to stumble, but she quickly regained her footing and ran on as fast as she could. Weaving around tree after tree, she attempted to lose her attacker, but he just kept coming. No matter how fast she ran, or what evasive maneuvers she attempted, she was not fast enough. The man’s longer strides caught up to her and he grasped a hold of her cloak, his fingers intertwining with the fabric.

“Nay!” Morgana cried out in pain as she was jerked backwards.

The sudden pressure of the metal broach against her throat threatened to cut off her airway. Struggling against the constraints of her own garment, she wept in fear and revulsion at the thought of what was about to happen to her. Mind racing, heart pounding, she could feel the heat of the man behind her as he drew her unwilling body to his.

“Ye are mine,” he growled behind her, his breath on her ear.

“Nay!” she cried out in protest, struggling against his grasp. “I will ne’er be yers!

Morgana yanked against his hold once more and a sharp pain at her throat caused by the metal of the broach created a momentary clearing of the panicked fog from her mind.

The broach!

Reaching up with frantic fingers, she unfastened her cloak. Allowing the man to have it, she darted forward. Unfortunately, she discovered too late that his fingers had also hooked onto her necklace.

“Nay,” she cried out as it ripped painfully away from her neck, leaving a mark where the chain had once lain against her skin. “Nay!” Morgana cried out again in protest but there was nothing that she could do about it. Her beloved necklace was gone. She had no time to mourn its loss as she lunged forward racing through the trees once more.

“Ye will be mine!” Roared her assailant, tossing her cloak to the ground, her necklace with it. “I will have yer body until I have had me fill and then I will share ye with me men,” he threatened, his voice causing the hairs on the back of her neck to prickle. “If there is anything left o’ ye tae share when I am through with ye, that is.” He laughed at the thought of her impending torment.

“I will ne’er be yers!”

Morgana looked over her shoulder to find that the second man had caught up to the first but had then stopped to retrieve her cloak and necklace. Sobbing, she ducked her head and leaned into the wind as she raced forward. When she finally cleared the trees, she lost all pretense of cover. She was left open and exposed in the afternoon sun. There was no place that she could go to hide, and without any blockages in her assailants’ way such as trees, logs, or underbrush, they would be able to catch up with her in no time at all.

Seeing water ahead of her, and a cliff edge quickly approaching, Morgana made the choice before she was able to calculate the full risk. Reaching the edge, she leapt. Air whooshed past her, the fabric of her gown flapping in the wind, as she prayed to whatever gods might be listening to save her. Her last thoughts as she fell were that she could not swim.

Morgana hit the water with a scream, praying that there were no sharp rocks below the surface. She sank beneath the waves, gasping for air. Her lungs burned as she frantically flailed about attempting to reclaim the surface. Her efforts resulted in a brief emergence, only to have a wave crash over her and send her plummeting back down into the watery abyss. She was drowning and there was nothing that she could do about it. She had never been taught how to swim, and her sodden clothes were weighing her down. She thrashed about in an attempt to surface, but it was to no avail. The more she fought, the more tired she became, causing her to only sink faster. Reaching her arm up towards the ever-dimming light, she said goodbye to all those that she loved.

Chapter Two

Craig Ainsley rode alongside his men laughing and jesting as they teased their newest recruit about his wandering eye for the lassies, when the sounds of battle whipped past them on the wind. “Lads,” he signaled for them to be silent, and they immediately obeyed, each man coming to a complete halt as they listened. The sound of battle came again. “The forest,” Craig observed, and his men nodded in agreement. Without saying another word, he and his men melted into the trees, using the undergrowth to hide their movements as they went to investigate.

When they came upon a small clearing with a stream, they found the ground littered with bodies while a battle still raged above the prone corpses. “Those are MacGregor clansmen,” Craig’s most trusted man, Brodie, murmured under his breath.

Craig and Bodie served the Laird Edward Campbell, born a MacGregor, who had then taken his wife’s clan’s name when he had inherited the lairdship after her uncle’s death. The Lady Evelyin had been the sole heir.

“Aye,” Craig agreed. “I recognized them as well. I dinnae ken the men that they are fighting. Regardless, we cannae leave them tae it. There are nae enough MacGregor men left tae defeat their attackers.”

“Aye, bandits, looks like,” Brodie agreed. “What is our plan o’ attack?”

“We will use the element of surprise tae our advantage,” Craig answered, scanning the landscape for more bandits. “I dinnae see any other attackers aside from these, but that daes nae mean that there are nay others nearby.”

“Brodie, ye take half o’ the men and come from this side,” he gestured towards the left flank. “I will take the other half o’ our men and come around from the other side. We will cut them off from any means o’ escape,” Craig instructed.

“Aye,” Brodie nodded in agreement. He moved towards the left flank, tapping half of their men on the shoulder as he moved among them to follow him. He instructed the rest of their men to join Craig on the right flank.

Craig and his men moved silently through the trees around to the other side of the clearing. “On me signal,” he commanded his men keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard. His men nodded in acknowledgement, standing at the ready.

Craig waited until he caught Brodie’s eye across the clearing, then raised his arm, letting it fall in a signal to attack. The Campbell clansmen raced forward out of the trees catching the bandits completely by surprise. None of them were ready for the hail of swords that rained down upon them. The bandits turned from the remaining wounded MacGregor clansmen and faced Craig’s men with no hope of winning. They were outnumbered, outmanned, exhausted. It did not take long for the well-rested Campbell clansmen to defeat them.

Standing over the bodies of the slain and wounded, Craig shook his head. He did not relish the thought of having to inform the Laird Edward about his people. “Gather the dead and the wounded of the MacGregor clansmen,” he instructed his men. “We will take the wounded with us tae find a healer. The dead deserve a proper burial amongst their own people.” Craig knelt down beside one of the wounded men. “Are there any more o’ yer men that we should find?”

“The Lady Morgana,” the wounded MacGregor clansman gasped out.

“What about the Lady Morgana?” Craig asked, concern seizing his mind and wrinkling his brow. “Was she with ye?”

“Aye, we were accompanyin’ her to Laird Aberdeen,” the wounded warrior gasped out, lifting a finger into the forest where he had last seen her. “Two o’ the men who attacked us went after her. I dinnae ken what has befallen her.”

Fear gripped Craig’s heart. Laird Edward’s sister was out there somewhere, dead or alive he did not know. “Morgana?!” Craig roared as he searched the nearby forest. “Morgana?!” he roared again but heard nothing.

“Craig?” Brodie inquired, coming stand beside him.

“The Lady Morgana was with her men. I am going tae look fer her,” Craig informed him.

“We will go with ye,” Brodie offered, concern wrinkling his brow.

Craig looked around at the wounded men and shook his head. “I will go and search fer her. These men will nae live tae see the morn if ye dinnae get them tae a healer. There will be nae more loss o’ the Laird Edward’s people if I have a say in it.”

“Aye,” Brodie nodded in agreement. “It is true. They will nae last much longer without care.”

“Take them tae the nearest healer that ye can find. Take me horse tae help transport the wounded. I will rejoin ye with the Lady Morgana as swiftly as I am able tae,” Craig instructed.

“Aye,” Brodie nodded and turned to do as instructed. He issued orders to the other men, and the difficult task of gathering up the dead and wounded began.

Craig walked over to the area of the forest that the MacGregor clansman had pointed to and inspected the ground for footprints. He found signs of a scuffle, then three sets of footprints that ran off through the mud on the other side of the stream. A woman’s scream pierced the air, igniting his blood with fear. “Morgana!” Craig yelled her name and took off at a dead run in the direction of the footprints. “Morgana!”

As he ran through the trees, his mind raced with concern for Morgana’s life. She was a strong woman. He knew that she would put up a good fight, but she was no match for two fully grown armed men bent on harming her. Craig ran with all of his speed and power, dodging trees and leaping over logs, stones, and underbrush. Another scream pierced the air, and he ran straight towards the sound. Up ahead, through the trees, he could make out the shape of a man kneeling over a dark form on the ground.

Rage seized his heart, mind, and soul, as Craig charged through the woodland throwing himself at the man, knocking him to the ground. Flashes of metal flew through the air as jewelry scattered across the ground, but it was the sight of Morgana’s necklace gripped tightly in the man’s hand that nearly sent him over the edge into outright murder. He pinned the man down, blade to his throat.

“Where is she?!” Craig shouted, demanding an immediate answer from his prisoner. The dark form on the ground was Morgana’s cloak but she was nowhere to be seen. “Where is she?!” He shook the man so hard that his teeth rattled, resulting in the blade moving away from his neck. It was just the moment that the bandit needed to gain enough leverage to bash Craig in the head.

Craig staggered backwards momentarily dazed. The bandit rolled out from beneath him and attempted to regain his footing, but Craig was not about to allow him to get the upper hand. He launched himself at the bandit once more and they grappled around on the ground, each trying to gain control of the other. Craig just barely managed to regain control of the blade and set the tip against the man’s throat. “Where is she?” he growled menacingly.

The man laughed. “Ye will ne’er find her in time and ye will nae want tae find her when he is done with her.” The man laughed with such gleeful menace, that it was as if pure evil lay on the ground beneath him. “I would have done the same tae her had I reached her first.”

“Tell me where she is and I might let ye live,” Craig commanded, attempting to swallow his rage.

“I would rather die than bow tae the likes o’ ye Campbells,” the man spat out.

“I am nae a Campbell, but I would be happy tae acquiesce yer request,” Craig growled, sinking the blade into the man’s throat. The bandit’s eyes widened briefly in surprise, then panic, then glazed over in death as he bled out onto the ground.

Rising, Craig removed his blade and cleaned it on the man’s clothing. Picking up Morgana’s necklace he placed it in his sporran and arose to run once more. Through the trees, he could just make out an open space and he ran for it as hard and fast as he could. Just as he emerged from the forest, he caught sight of Morgana leaping to her death over the side of the cliff, while her attacker just barely missed grabbing her by her hair.

“Morgana!” Craig yelled in horror. He ran forward drawing his sword and plunged it through her attacker’s heart before the man realized he was there, then leapt over the side of the cliff after Morgana.

***

Morgana had fought with all of her strength to save herself from drowning, but to no avail. The great aquatic expanse had swallowed her up and was about to become her final resting place.

I cannae believe that this is how it ends. After everything that me family has been through, it is nae by battle or auld age that I meet me end, but by the sea, but still better than at the hands of bandits.

She did not know when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, panic had turned to peace. Just as Morgana started to surrender to unconsciousness and her fate, she felt something strong wrap around her torso. She felt it grasp her body and begin to move upward. In her cloud fogged oxygen starved mind, she realized that someone was hauling her up out of the water.

When her head finally burst forth above the surface and into the blessed air, she gasped, coughed, and sputtered up water from her lungs. She flailed about, afraid that she might sink once more, and even more afraid that her rescuer was also her assailant. “Let me go! I would rather die than succumb tae the likes o’ ye! Let me go!”

“Morgana,” a familiar masculine voice called her name. “Morgana, ye are safe.”

She turned her head to see her brother Edward’s councilman treading water beside her, holding her up above the water. “Craig?”

“Aye,” Craig nodded, he searched her face, concern wrinkling his brow. “Are ye hurt? Did they hurt ye?”

Morgana shook her head. “Nay, I am nae wounded.”

“Good,” Craig acknowledged, brushing the hair back from her face. He watched her breathing for a moment, before turning his eyes to search the coastline.

Morgana followed his eyes and felt panic well up inside of her once more. There was nothing but a rocky cliff face. As far as her eyes could see, there was no clear way back up to the top. It was a miracle that she had not fallen to her death on the rocks. “Craig?” she breathed his name in questioning prayer.

“We will find a way, lass. Hold on tae me and I will swim us tae the rocks,” he instructed, as he moved her body around his and onto his back.

Morgana did as he instructed, holding on to his shoulders and kicking her legs as he swam them to the face of the cliff.

“Dae ye see anything?” she asked. In spite of the cold water, she felt a flush of heat within her breasts where their two bodies touched.

“Nay, nae yet.” Craig swam along the cliff until he found a rocky protrusion that he could hoist Morgana up onto. Morgana was startled by his strength as he hefted her up onto the rocks. She shivered as the cool air hit her sodden wet garments. The water had been cold enough, but adding the cold air raised bumps over her entire body. She shivered so hard that her teeth chattered.

“What will we dae?” she breathed, attempting to hide the fear from her voice as she looked up the side of the cliff.

“We will find a way up,” he reassured her. He looked her over from head to foot making certain that she had not been injured in any way. “Are ye well, lass?” The concern in his hazel eyes made them all the more dynamic.

“I am well enough,” she answered. A shiver of cold passed over Morgana’s body.

“We need tae get ye up out o’ this water and near a fire afore ye freeze tae death.” He turned his eyes back to the inspection of the rocky cliff that towered above them. “I think I see a way up, but it will be dangerous. Ye will need tae shed that wet gown.”

Morgana looked at him mortified. “Ye wish fer me tae climb this cliff naked?”

Craig shook his head. “I would nae ask ye tae dae such a thing if it were nae absolutely necassary. Ye can keep yer shift, lass, but the gown must go. It is too laden with water fer ye tae make it up the side o’ this cliff while wearing it. I will help ye all that I am able, but ye must dae yer part. Yer modesty and virtue will remain intact. I would ne’er dae aught tae compromise ye.”

Morgana was having difficulty thinking through the fear that was coursing through her entire body. She had been attacked, nearly drowned, and was now forced to climb a sheer cliff face. To make matters worse, she had no notion as to whether her attackers were still at the top of the cliff. “I dinnae wish tae die, in a shift or nae.”

Craig shook his head again. “Ye are nae going tae die this day. Nae if I have anything tae say about it. But believe me, there are worse ways tae die than in a shift,” Craig chuckled, giving her a knowing smile.

Morgana blushed once more at the insinuation of his words. “Ye should nae speak tae me thus,” she reprimanded him, more to hide her own body’s response to the images that his words conjured in her mind than in actual offense.

“Aye, me apologies, me lady. I should nae have spoken tae ye thus,” Craig’s manner shifted, causing a silent tension to descend over them. Taking a deep breath, he met her eyes. “Regardless of propriety, ye have nay choice but tae disrobe if ye wish tae survive this day. Ye are a brave lass. Ye can dae this,” he reassured her.

Before Morgana could argue further, he hefted himself up onto the stone beside her. His wet clothes clung to every line of his muscular arms and torso. It was an awe-inspiring sight that made Morgana’s blush deepen to a bright fiery red that started in her cheeks and traveled down her neck to her breasts. “I can dae anything that ye can dae,” she quipped to hide her discomfort.

Craig smiled in acknowledgement of her claim. “That is good. Ye will need courage. Enough talking now. It is time tae remove yer gown and get tae climbing.”

Morgana frowned at him but did as he instructed, removing her outer clothing. She knew that he was right and to protest further would only waste valuable time and energy. As she shed the last article of clothing, she caught him looking at her with a glimmer of desire in his eyes. “I am ready,” she informed him, as she let the last garment fall.

Morgana stood shivering in her wet shift attempting to cover herself with her hands as Craig looked up from her practically see-through shift and met her eyes. Morgana thought she saw desire and honor battling in his. Uneasy, she shifted her gaze away from his. Despite the cold wetness of her shift, she could feel her body heating up under his stare. She quickly turned her head to stare up the cliff in trepidation.

Craig shifted uneasily next to her. Tearing his eyes away from her, he followed her gaze up the cliff face. “Now it is time tae climb,” he instructed. Taking her hand in his, he placed it on the first rocky hand hold. “Dae ye see that next place there?” He gestured towards a small rock protrusion that she could grasp a hold of to gain some leverage. It was not a large protrusion, but her hands were small enough to make it work. She had never climbed a cliff before and the thought of falling all of those feet again made her more than a little nervous.

Craig gathered Morgana’s clothing and examined them as if he were testing the weight of them, then shook his head.

“What is it?” Morgana asked, watching him over her shoulder.

“I cannae carry yer clothes up the cliff and manage tae help ye climb as well. They are tae sodden with water. I have nay choice but tae leave yer gown behind.” His eyes swept over her barely concealed posterior.

Morgana could feel herself blushing once more, so she hurriedly turned back towards the cliff. There was nothing she could do at that moment, so she tried to ignore just how vulnerable she felt and concentrated on the task at hand.

“I will put yer clothes in as safe a place as I can,” he promised from behind her. Out of the corner of her eyes, Morgana saw him bundle up her clothes and place them on an upper rock shelf, barely big enough for the dripping fabric. Once they were secured, Craig joined her on the wall.

Morgana had not made it much past the first steps, when her foot slipped, and she lost her hold on the wet stones. “Craig!” She cried out as she fell backwards towards the jagged rocks below.

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