Alpin looked up from his ledger. A farmer from the eastern border, stood before him. His weathered face was drawn with fear, hands twisted together.
“When?” Alpin asked, settin’ down his quill.
“Two nights past. Me daughter, Elspeth. Went tae fetch water and never came back.” The farmer’s voice cracked. “We searched all night. There’s nay sign of her.”
Alpin felt something cold settle in his gut. This was the third report in three weeks. Three women, all young, all disappeared.
“Did anyone see anythin’?”
“Naethin’, me laird. But me wife heard horses that night. From the north road. Fast.”
Horses. The second family had mentioned horses too.
“How old is Elspeth?”
“Eighteen, me laird.” The man’s eyes were wet. “She’s a good lass. Who would want tae take her?”
Who indeed. But Alpin was starting to have suspicions, and none of them were pleasant.
“I’ll send men tae search the area,” he said. “And I want tae speak with everyone who lives near that well. Someone must have seen somethin’.”
“Thank ye, me laird.” The father’s relief was palpable. “Thank ye. We just want her home safely.”
After Duncan left, Alpin moved to the window. Callum was training below, swords flashing in the sun. The scene looked peaceful.
But three women were gone.
“Ye look troubled.”
Alpin turned to find Callum in the doorway, sweat-stained from training.
“Another one’s gone. Elspeth MacLeod. Eighteen. Vanished two nights ago.”
Callum’s expression darkened. “That’s three.”
“Aye.” Alpin pulled out a map, marking three spots. “All within five miles of each other. All near the northern border.”
Callum came closer, studying the map. “Ye think someone’s takin’ them deliberately.”
“I think someone’s huntin’ on me lands, and I want tae ken who.” Alpin’s jaw tightened. “Three women daenae just disappear. Nae without help.”
“Raiders?”
“Maybe. But raiders usually take more than just young women. They take livestock, supplies, anythin’ of value.” Alpin tapped the map. “This feels… specific. Like someone kens exactly what they’re lookin’ fer.”
“Or who they’re lookin’ for,” Callum said quietly.
The implication sat heavy between them.
Young women. Taken from their homes. No witnesses. No demands for ransom. Just… gone.
“I’ve heard rumors,” Callum said after a moment. “From some of the men who travel to the markets in the south. Whispers about women bein’ sold. Taken from their clans and auctioned off to the highest bidder.”
Alpin’s hands curled into fists on the desk. “Sold. Like cattle.”
“Aye. I didnae believe it at first. Thought it was just tavern talk, men tryin’ tae sound important.” Callum’s expression was grim. “But now, with these disappearances…”
“If someone’s stealin’ women from me lands tae sell them, I’ll gut them meself.” Alpin’s voice was deadly quiet. “Slowly.”
“First we need proof. And we need tae ken who’s behind it.” Callum straightened. “What dae ye want me tae dae?”
“Double the patrols along the northern border. I want men on every road, every path. And I want them watchin’ fer strangers. Anyone who daesnae belong.” Alpin looked at the map again. “Also, send word to the other lairds in the area. Ask if they’ve had similar problems.”
“Ye think this is happenin’ beyond our lands?”
“If it’s an organized operation, they’re nae just workin’ in one place.” Alpin’s mind was already racing through possibilities. “They’ll be castin’ a wide net, takin’ women from multiple clans tae avoid drawin’ too much attention.”
“Smart,” Callum admitted. “And dangerous.”
“Aye.” Alpin rolled up the map. “Which is why we need tae stop them before more lasses disappear.”
Over the following week, reports came in from neighboring clans. Two more women gone. Both young. Both vanished without a trace.
Alpin read the latest dispatch from another farmer. His daughter, seventeen, taken from her garden.
“This is organized,” Alpin said to Callum. “They’re movin’ fast, strikin’ when guards are down.”
“Which means they ken the lands well.” Callum pulled out a parchment. “Me contacts in the south confirmed rumors. Underground market in the Lowlands. Women brought in and sold. One name keeps comin’ up. Laird Aodh Graham.”
Graham. Alpin knew the name.
A laird from the western Highlands with a reputation for ruthlessness and a talent for profit. If anyone could organize something like this, it would be him.
“Can we prove it’s Graham?”
“Nae yet. But I have men askin’ questions, followin’ leads.” Callum hesitated. “Me laird, if this really is an organized slave trade, goin’ after Graham directly could start a war. He has allies, resources.”
“So dae I.” Alpin’s voice was hard. “And I dinnae care who he is or what power he has. If he’s stealin’ women from me lands, I’ll bring him down.”
“I ken. I just want ye tae be prepared fer what that might cost.”
Alpin looked at his oldest friend, seeing the concern there.
Callum had been with him since they were lads, had fought beside him in more battles than he could count. If anyone understood the weight of leadership, it was him.
“I became laird tae protect me people,” Alpin said quietly. “All of them. If I cannae keep young women safe in their own homes, what kind of leader am I?”
“A human one,” Callum replied. “Ye cannae be everywhere at once.”
“Nay. But I can make sure that whoever’s daein’ this kens there’s a price to pay.” Alpin moved to the window, looking out at his lands. “Send our best scouts to the Lowlands. I want eyes on Graham and anyone associated with him. I want tae ken where these auctions are happenin’, when they happen, and who’s buyin’.”
“That could take weeks. Maybe months.”
“Then we’d better start now.” Alpin turned back to face him. “Because every day we wait is another day someone’s daughter is bein’ sold like livestock. And I’ll be damned if I let that continue on me watch.”
Callum nodded slowly. “I’ll make the arrangements. But Alpin, if ye’re serious about infiltratin’ these auctions, it’s dangerous. Graham will have guards, protections. One wrong move and…”
“I ken the risks.” Alpin’s expression was set. “But I need tae see it with me own eyes. Need tae understand what we’re fightin’ against.”
“And if ye see one of our lasses there? What then?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? What would he do if he walked into that auction house and saw Elspeth MacLeod or Isla Fraser or any of the other missing women standing on a block, being bid on like animals?
“Then I’ll dae whatever it takes tae get her out,” Alpin said. “Even if it means blowin’ me cover and startin’ a war right there in the middle of their bloody auction.”
“That’s what I thought ye’d say.” But Callum was smiling slightly. “Fer what it’s worth, I’d dae the same.”
“I ken ye would. Which is why ye’re comin’ with me when the time comes.”
Over the following weeks, Alpin threw himself into the investigation. Scouts were sent out, informants were contacted, and slowly, painfully, a picture began to emerge.
One day, he received an unexpected letter from his good friend and ally, Paedar Mac Gregor, recounting an adventure that had ultimately led to his marriage. The story involved the very network of auction houses Alpin was searching for. He himself had infiltrated one to gather information about an enemy, only to leave with Kenina, the daughter of a laird who had been kidnapped and was being sold there. After taking her under his protection they had fallen in love and married.
There was indeed an organized network stealing women across the Highlands.
Graham was involved, though whether he was the mastermind or just a participant remained unclear. And the auctions were real, held in secret locations that changed frequently to avoid detection.
However, finding the auctions was only half the battle. Actually getting inside, gathering evidence, and hopefully rescuing some of the stolen women would require careful planning and perfect timing.
Alpin stood in his solar late one night, staring at the maps and reports spread across his desk. Somewhere out there, young women were being held captive.
Frightened. Alone. Waiting for someone to save them.
He would be that someone. Whatever it took.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
“Come.”
Callum entered, his expression serious. “Word just came in. One of our scouts found an auction house. Hidden in an abandoned grain warehouse near the border. He says there’s one scheduled fer next week.”
Alpin’s heart began to pound. “Did he see any of our missin’ lasses?”
“He couldnae get close enough tae tell. But Me laird…” Callum moved closer. “This could be our chance. Our only chance tae see this operation from the inside.”
“Then we’re goin’.” Alpin said it without hesitation. “Ye, me, and two others ye trust completely. We go in as buyers, keep our identities hidden, and gather as much information as we can.”
“And if we see one of our own?”
Alpin met his friend’s eyes. “Then we improvise.”
Because that was all they could do.
Walk into the darkness, see the horror for themselves, and pray they were strong enough to fight their way back out.
With or without starting a war.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
Don’t miss your link to the whole series at the end of the preview.
Chapter One
1654, Auction House
“Hold still, ye daft lass, or ye’ll trip over yer own feet.”
The voice was rough, impatient. Mhairi tried to pull away from the hands gripping her arms, but the blindfold made everything worse—every sound too loud, every touch a threat she couldn’t see coming.
“Where are ye takin’ me?” Her voice came out stronger than she felt. “I demand tae ken.”
“Demand all ye like,” another voice cut in, this one closer to her ear. “Willnae change where ye’re goin’.”
Laughter. Multiple voices, all around her.
The floor beneath her feet changed from dirt to wood, and suddenly the chaos she’d been hearin’ grew deafening. Shoutin’. The scrape of chairs. The thick smell of whisky and unwashed bodies.
“Get her up there,” someone barked. “Graham’s waitin’.”
Mhairi’s heart hammered against her ribs. “Up where? What is this place?”
No answer. Just hands pushin’ her forward, guidin’ her up what felt like steps. Three of them. Four. When they stopped, rough fingers worked at the knot behind her head.
“Remember,” the voice at her ear said, “ye run, we drag ye back. Make it easy on yerself.”
The blindfold fell away.
Mhairi blinked against the sudden torchlight, and her stomach dropped straight through the floor.
She was standin’ on a raised platform in the center of a vast underground chamber. Stone walls, low ceilings, packed with men. Dozens of them, maybe more, all turned toward her with expressions that made her skin crawl.
Some were Highland born, judgin’ by their dress. Others wore Lowland fashion. And still others, English, by the look of their fine coats and polished boots.
Words died in her throat as understanding crashed over her like a wave of ice water.
An auction house.
They’d brought her to an auction house.
She stumbled backward, and hands clamped down on her arms before she could run.
“Gentlemen!” A voice boomed from somewhere to her left. A man stepped into view—stocky, scarred, with the build of someone who’d spent his life fightin’. “Our next offerin’ is a rare prize indeed. Young, healthy, and—”
“Let me go!” Mhairi lunged for the edge of the platform.
She didn’t make it three steps before the guards hauled her back to the center like she weighed nothin’.
She twisted, kicked, fought with every ounce of strength she had. “Ye cannae dae this! I’m a Munro! Me clan will—”
“Fifty scots,” someone shouted from the crowd.
Mhairi’s blood turned to ice.
“Fifty-two scots!”
“Fifty-eight scots!”
“Sixty-five scots!”
The scarred man, Laird Aodh Graham, grinned like a wolf. “Come now, gentlemen. Surely ye can dae better than that. Look at her, strong, spirited. She’ll give ye fine sons.”
Bile rose in Mhairi’s throat. “I’m nae fer sale, ye bastard!”
“Seventy scots!”
The shouts came faster now, numbers climbing higher. Mhairi’s vision swam. She scanned the crowd desperately, searching for—what?
Someone to help her?
Her gaze snagged on a man near the back. Tall, broad-shouldered, fair hair mostly hidden beneath a hood. He wasn’t shouting like the others. Just… watching. Their eyes met for half a heartbeat, and something flickered in his expression. Then someone shoved past him, blocking her view.
“Eighty-one scots!”
“Stop!” The word tore from her throat. “Me faither will pay fer me return! Whatever ye’re askin’, he’ll pay.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Cold. Cruel.
Graham leaned closer, his voice dropping low enough that only she could hear. “Oh, lass. Ye really dinnae ken, dae ye?”
“Ken what?”
“Who dae ye think brought ye here?”
The world tilted.
“Ninety scots!” A new voice. English accent. Cultured. Old.
Mhairi’s gaze snapped toward the sound. There—in the third row—a man perhaps fifty years of age, dressed in fine English fashion. His eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that made her want to scrub her skin raw.
Her father. Her own father.
“Yer faither sold ye tae me a fortnight ago,” Graham said, almost conversationally. “Needed coin fer his debts. Yer sister too, though she’s a wee bit young yet. Give her another year or two.” He gestured to the crowd. “Now I’m makin’ me profit.”
The pieces were falling into place. Her father’s tension those past months. The closed-door meetings. The way he’d looked at her at breakfast two weeks before.
The room went quiet.
Graham’s smile could’ve cut glass. “Ninety scots. Any advance on ninety scots?”
Silence.
Mhairi’s legs threatened to give out. The guards holding her were the only reason she was still standing.
“Ninety once!” Graham raised his hand. “Ninety twice!”
“Sold!” Graham’s hand came down like a gavel. “To His Grace, the Duke of Ravenscar!”
The English lord stood, and Mhairi’s stomach turned over.
“Get her backstage,” Graham ordered. “His Grace will want tae finalize the transaction.”
The guards dragged her off the platform. She fought—God, did she fight—but there were too many of them. They hauled her through a narrow doorway into a dimly lit corridor, then into a small room with a desk and two chairs.
Graham followed, closing the door behind him. He moved to the desk, pouring himself whisky. “Ye’re worth Ninety scots tae me now, lass. So, I suggest ye stop fightin’ and accept yer fate.”
“I dinnae belong tae anyone!” The words came out fierce, but tears were burnin’ behind her eyes. “I’m nae property tae be sold!”
“Ye are what I say ye are.” Graham set down his glass.
The door opened. Mhairi spun toward it, and her heart stopped.
The English lord stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click. Up close, he was even worse. Tall enough to loom over her. Eyes cold and calculating. And when he smiled, it didnae reach anywhere near those eyes.
“My dear,” he said, his accent crisp and refined. “How lovely to finally meet you properly.”
Mhairi backed away until her spine hit the wall. “Stay away from me.”
“Now, now.” He moved closer, each step deliberate. “Is that any way to greet your new husband?”
“Husband?” The word came out strangled. “I’m nae marryin’ ye! I’ll die first.”
His smile widened. “I do hope not. Where would the fun in that be?” He was right in front of her, close enough that she could smell his cologne—expensive, cloying. “We have a long journey ahead of us, my dear. Plenty of time to begin your education.”
Mhairi tried to dart past him. He caught her wrist before she made it two steps, yanking her back against his chest. She screamed, thrashed, clawed at his arm.
Two more men burst through the door. Ashcombe’s guards. They grabbed her flailing arms, wrestling her still.
“Let her go,” Graham said from the desk. “Ye’ve nae paid yet.”
“Of course.” Ashcombe gestured, and one guard kept Mhairi pinned while he reached into his coat. He produced a leather purse, tossing it onto the desk. “Ninety, as agreed. Count it if you wish.”
Graham picked up the purse, weighing it in his hand. “Always dae.” He opened it, began counting coins onto the desk.
“I will be trouble,” Mhairi snarled, still fightin’ against the guards’ grip. “I’ll be naethin’ but trouble, I swear it.”
Ashcombe’s breath was hot against her ear. “Good. I prefer my wives with spirit. Makes the breaking so much more… satisfying.”
Mhairi’s vision blurred with tears she refused to let fall. “Ye’ll never break me.”
“We’ll see.”
“The count is correct,” Graham announced. “She’s yers, Yer Grace.”
“Excellent.” Ashcombe nodded to his men. They began dragging Mhairi toward the door. She kicked, screamed, bit one guard’s hand hard enough to draw blood—
He backhanded her across the face. Stars exploded in her vision.
“Carefully,” Ashcombe said mildly. “I don’t want her damaged.”
They hauled her out into the corridor, then toward another door that led outside. To the stables.
No one came near. No one even tried.
This was her life now, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do to stop it.
“Get her on the horse.”
Ashcombe’s voice cut through the night air like a blade. Mhairi’s hands were bound in front of her, rough rope biting into her wrists, but she wasnae about to make this easy for them.
“I can walk,” she spat.
“You’ll ride.” Ashcombe nodded to one of his men. “And you’ll do so quietly, or I’ll gag you as well.”
The stable yard was dark save for a few scattered torches. Two men flanked Ashcombe, hired swords by the look of them, both wearing leather armor and carrying blades that had seen plenty of use. Beyond them, the forest loomed like a wall of shadows.
If she was going to run, it had to be now.
“Come along, darling.” Ashcombe reached for her arm.
Mhairi bolted.
She made it perhaps ten steps before hands caught her from behind, spinning her around. She kicked out hard, connecting with someone’s shin. A curse. Then she was running again, rope-bound hands and all, headed straight for the tree line—
One of the guards tackled her from the side.
“Nay!” Mhairi hit the ground hard, all the air rushin’ from her lungs. “Let me…”
“Enough of this.” Ashcombe’s voice was cold now. All pretense of civility gone. “Bind her ankles as well.”
“Nay!” Mhairi thrashed as rough hands grabbed her legs. “Ye cannae dae this. I’m nae going with ye.”
More rope. Tight around her ankles. She was lifted bodily, thrown over someone’s shoulder like a sack of grain, and then deposited sideways across a horse’s saddle.
“Please.” Her voice broke despite her best efforts. “Please, just let me go. I swear I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Ashcombe mounted his own horse, reins in hand. “Run back to the father who sold you? I think not.” He nodded to his men. “We ride south. No stops until dawn.”
“Wait, nay, please just listen tae me.”
But the horses were already movin’, and Mhairi’s pleas disappeared into the darkness behind them.
Chapter Two
Earlier that evening
“Ye’re certain this is the place?”
Alpin MacDougal kept his voice low, eyes fixed on the entrance to what looked like an abandoned grain warehouse. But the number of guards stationed around it told a different story.
“Aye, me laird.” His scout, Callum, gestured toward the building. “Three lasses from our lands disappeared in the last month. Tracks led here.”
Alpin’s jaw tightened. He’d heard the rumors, underground auctions where women were sold like cattle, but hearing and seeing were two very different things.
“How many guards?”
“Eight outside that I can count. More inside, likely.”
Too many to fight. Not without startin’ a war he wasnae ready for. “I’m goin’ in.”
Callum’s head whipped toward him. “Me laird…”
“I need tae see what’s happenin’ in there. Who’s runnin’ this. Who’s buyin’.” Alpin adjusted his cloak, pullin’ the hood lower over his fair hair. “If I can get names, faces, evidence, we can bring this tae the king.”
“And if they recognize ye?”
“They willnae.” Alpin had dressed carefully, plain clothes, nothin’ that screamed laird. And he’d left his clan colors back at camp. “Stay here with the men. If I’m nae out by dawn, ride back and tell Tristan what ye saw.”
“Me laird…”
“That’s an order, Callum.”
The scout’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he nodded.
Alpin made his way toward the entrance, keeping to the shadows. The guards were checking each man who entered, looking for weapons, mostly, but they let him pass with barely a glance after he slipped them a few coins.
Inside, the noise hit him first. Voices. Laughter. The clink of glasses. And underneath it all, something that made his skin crawl. Anticipation. Hunger.
The chamber was packed. Alpin found a spot near the back, where he could see the raised platform without bein’ too visible himself. His hand rested on the dirk hidden beneath his cloak.
“Gentlemen!” A scarred man stepped onto the platform. “Welcome, welcome. We have a fine selection fer ye taenight.”
Alpin’s attention sharpened. That was Laird Aodh Graham. He’d heard of him before—a laird with considerable power and connections, known for his ruthlessness and willingness to profit from any venture, no matter how dark. The auctions were just another way for him to expand his wealth.
The first lass they brought out was barely sixteen. Alpin’s hands curled into fists as the biddin’ started, as men shouted numbers like she was livestock. When she was dragged off the platform in tears, he had to force himself to stay still.
Evidence first. Justice after.
Two more lasses followed. Both sold within minutes.
“Our next offerin’ is a rare prize indeed!”
A new lass was pushed onto the platform, and Alpin’s breath caught.
She was beautiful—dark hair, grey eyes that flashed with fury even through her obvious terror. But it wasn’t her beauty that held his attention. It was the way she fought. The way she snarled at Graham like a wildcat despite being surrounded by men twice her size.
“I’m nae fer sale, ye bastard!”
Her voice carried across the entire chamber, clear and defiant. Several men laughed. Alpin didn’t.
“A Munro,” someone near him muttered. “Bold as brass, that one.”
Munro. Alpin’s mind raced. The Munros were a powerful clan with considerable lands in the Highlands, their power built on territory rather than coin.
He’d heard whispers over the past year—debts, failed harvests. But no, it couldn’t be… a father wouldn’t do that tae his child. Would he?
The bidding started. It climbed higher and higher.
The lass—Mhairi, they called her—kept fighting, kept pleading. And every word she spoke made Alpin’s chest tighten with somethin’ he couldnae name.
When the English lord made his final bid, ninety, the room went silent.
Dae somethin’, bid higher. Get her out of here.
But that would blow his cover. Would put a target on his back before he had the evidence he needed. And it wouldn’t save all the other lasses who’d be sold tomorrow, or the day after.
The hammer fell.
“Sold!”
Alpin watched them drag her backstage, watched the English lord follow and made his decision.
He slipped out of the warehouse while everyone’s attention was still on the platform and found Callum and his men exactly where he’d left him.
“We’re following them,” Alpin said shortly.
“Who?”
“The English lord who just bought the Munro lass. I want tae ken where he’s takin her.”
Callum’s eyes widened. “Me laird, if ye interfere it’ll be bad.”
“I’m nae asking fer permission.” Alpin was already moving toward where they’d hidden their horses. “I’m tellin’ ye what we’re daein’. Now mount up.”
They waited in the tree line until Ashcombe emerged with his prize. Even from a distance, Alpin could hear her screaming.
His hands tightened on his reins.
“Easy,” Callum murmured. “Too many guards. Too many witnesses.”
“I ken.” But watching them throw her across that horse, bound and helpless, it took every ounce of control he had not to charge down there anyway.
The English lord’s party headed south. Alpin and Callum and the guards followed, stayin’ well back, lettin’ the darkness hide them.
Hours passed, the moon rose higher. Finally the party ahead slowed, then stopped in a small clearing.
“If I’m nae back in an hour, assume I’m dead and ride fer home.”
He moved through the forest like a ghost, years of hunting making his steps silent. The English lord’s camp came into view, two guards posted, one tending the fire. And there, tied to a tree—
Mhairi.
Even bound and clearly exhausted, she held her head high. Watching. Waiting.
Smart lass.
Alpin counted the men again. Three total, including Ashcombe. He could take them, but he’d need the element of surprise.
He circled the camp, moving into position. Then he picked up a stone and threw it hard into the brush on the opposite side.
“What was that?” One of the guards spun toward the sound.
“Probably just an animal,” the other said, but he was reaching for his sword.
“Check it anyway.”
The first guard moved toward the noise. The second followed, leaving Ashcombe alone by the fire.
Alpin struck.
He came out of the darkness fast, dirk already drawn. The first guard went down without a sound, Alpin’s blade finding the gap in his armor. The second spun toward him, sword raised—
Steel met steel with a sound that shattered the night’s quiet.
“Attack!” the guard shouted. “We’re under attack!”
Ashcombe was on his feet instantly, weapon drawn. “Who dares?”
Alpin didnae answer. Just moved, fast and brutal, disarming the second guard with a quick twist of his blade. The man stumbled back, and Mhairi, hands still bound, kicked out hard. Her feet caught him behind the knees and he went down.
Their eyes met for half a heartbeat. Hers were wide, shocked—but fierce.
Then Ashcombe was there, blade coming straight for Alpin’s head.
Alpin blocked, stepped inside the English lord’s guard, and slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest. Ashcombe staggered. Behind him, Mhairi was working at her bindings, teeth tearing at the rope.
“Stop!” Ashcombe’s voice cracked like a whip. “I bought that woman legally! You’re stealing my property!”
“Property?” Alpin’s voice came out deadly quiet. He pressed forward, forcing Ashcombe back step by step. “She’s nae property, ye English bastard. She’s a person.”
“I paid ninety scots.”
“Ye paid ninety scots fer someone who was nae fer sale.” Alpin’s blade moved faster now, anger lending him speed. “That’s the difference between ye and me. I ken women arenae objects tae be bought.”
Behind them, Mhairi’s bindings came free. She was on her feet instantly and runnin’.
Into the forest.
Into the darkness.
Ashcombe lunged toward her. “Stop her!”
Alpin blocked his path, their blades locking together. “She’s already gone.”
“Then I’ll hunt her down.”
“Ye’ll try.” Alpin broke the lock, spun, and landed a brutal kick to Ashcombe’s knee. The English lord went down with a cry of pain. “But ye’ll have tae get through me first.”
He couldn’t kill him. Killing a duke, even an English one, would bring consequences Alpin wasn’t ready for. But he could make sure the bastard stayed down long enough for Mhairi to get away.
One more strike. Ashcombe’s sword went flyin’ into the underbrush. Alpin pressed his dirk to the man’s throat.
“If I ever see ye on Scottish soil again,” Alpin said softly, “I’ll cut yer throat and leave ye fer the wolves. Understand?”
Ashcombe’s eyes burned with fury. “This isn’t over.”
“Aye, it is.” Alpin stepped back, blade still raised. “Now get out of me sight before I change me mind about lettin’ ye live.”
The English lord stumbled to his feet, clutching his injured knee. His remaining guard was already moving toward the horses. Within moments, they were gone, crashing through the forest like wounded animals.
Alpin took one breath. Two.
Then he turned toward the darkness where Mhairi had disappeared.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the pines, striping the muddy road with gold and shadow. Peadar rode beside Tristan, his shoulders aching from morning training, his thoughts already drifting toward supper and sleep.
Ahead of him, his father, Dougal MacGregor rode with his mother, their horses close, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. Eilidh MacGregor laughed at something he said—soft and warm, the sound that had shaped Peadar’s childhood. His father reached over and adjusted her cloak, shielding her from the evening chill.
They looked… content.
Behind them rode four MacGregor guards, relaxed but alert. They were deep on MacGregor land, less than an hour from home. This road had carried their clan for generations.
Tristan rode at his side, close enough that their stirrups brushed. They’d been inseparable since childhood—brothers forged by scraped knees and shared punishments.
“Yer da’s planning another cattle raid,” Tristan said conversationally. “Against the Camerons, I heard.”
“The Camerons are allies,” Peadar scoffed. “Why would—”
The arrow came from nowhere.
One moment his father sat tall in the saddle. The next, a black-fletched shaft punched through his back with a wet, horrifying sound and burst from his chest.
His father made a small, startled noise—more confusion than pain—and toppled forward, sliding bonelessly from his horse into the mud.
“DA!”
“DOWN!” one of the guards shouted. But it was too late.
Arrows rained from the trees.
A guard pitched sideways with a shaft buried in his throat, blood spraying across the road. Another took two arrows to the chest and fell without a sound. Horses screamed. Men shouted. The quiet road became slaughter in a heartbeat.
Eilidh screamed.
The sound snapped him fully awake.
“Maither!” He kicked his horse forward—but armed men were already emerging from the trees, disciplined, relentless. They wore mixed colors, cloaks hastily altered.
Someone struck Peadar from the side. He felt himself fall, the world tilting violently as he hit the ground. Pain exploded behind his eyes. Mud filled his mouth.
Get up. Get up.
He pushed to his hands and knees, vision swimming. Through the blur, he saw his father lying face down in the road, blood soaking into the earth beneath him.
Dead.
His mother was dragged from her horse.
She fought—God, she fought—but trained men overwhelmed her easily. One struck her hard enough to knock her to her knees.
“NAY!” Peadar surged forward—
A sword slammed under his chin, lifting his face. Steel kissed his throat.
“Stay down, boy,” a voice said calmly. “Unless ye want tae die with him.”
Peadar froze.
Then the men parted.
A rider dismounted and walked forward with unhurried confidence, boots sinking into blood-slicked mud. His armor was finer than the others’. His bearing unmistakable.
Torcull Drummond.
Recognition hit Peadar like a second blade.
Drummond stopped beside his father’s body and nudged it with his boot, expression unreadable.
“So,” he said mildly. “MacGregor chose his side.”
Eilidh spat blood at his feet. “Ye murdering bastard.”
Drummond backhanded her.
The crack echoed across the road. Peadar jerked forward instinctively, but the sword at his throat pressed harder, and warm blood trickled down his neck. The man holding it smiled.
“Careful, boy. Wouldnae want tae make this worse.”
Drummond crouched before Eilidh, his expression almost gentle. He smiled faintly. “He supported Matheson. Openly. Spoke against me claim. Encouraged others tae dae the same.” He tilted his head, studying her like a scholar studying a text. “Did he think I wouldnae hear? That I wouldnae care?”
He stood slowly, his gaze sweeping the carnage—the bodies, the blood, the terrified horses.
“I’m correcting that.”
He pinned Peadar with a deadly glare.
“Every clan needs reminding, now and again,” Drummond said evenly, “of what happens when they use resistance.”
He gestured to one of his men. A simple, economical movement.
The soldier drew his sword and drove it into Eilidh’s stomach.
She made a sound—choked, wet—and blood spilled from her lips.
Peadar surged forward despite the blade at his throat, vision red, blood roaring in his ears.
“Dinnae ye touch her!”
Drummond lifted his sword—not hurried, not angry. Judging.
“Kill him,” he said calmly. “The boy’s old enough tae be dangerous.”
The man holding the sword drew back his arm—
“Nay!”
Tristan moved without thinking.
He threw himself between Peadar and the descending blade, arms wide, his body shielding Peadar’s chest.
The sword came down anyway.
It struck Tristan across the shoulder and upper back, cutting through leather and flesh in a brutal, tearing arc. Tristan cried out as he was thrown aside, hitting the ground hard, blood pouring freely.
“Tristan!”
Peadar fought like a madman then—thrashing, snarling, blind with fury—but too many hands held him down. He could only watch as Tristan lay gasping, teeth clenched, one arm useless at his side.
Drummond looked down at Tristan with mild surprise. Then interest.
“Hm,” he murmured. “Loyal.”
He turned away from them, already bored.
“Kill the general,” he said instead.
Peadar’s head snapped up.
“Nay!”
Tristan’s father—his da, Peadar’s father’s most trusted general, the man who’d taught both boys to hold a sword—was dragged forward by two soldiers. He was bleeding from a gash on his temple, but he stood straight, spine unbent, eyes fixed on Drummond with open contempt.
“Ye’ll pay fer this,” the general said hoarsely. “Nae today. Nae tomorrow. But ye’ll pay.”
Drummond smiled at him.
“Oh, bullocks now. Bold words coming from a dead man.”
He drew his sword himself this time in one clean stroke.
The general’s head jerked back. His knees folded. He collapsed into the mud without a sound.
Something inside Peadar screamed and tore apart at Tristan’s guttural scream.
Drummond wiped his blade on the dead man’s cloak and sheathed it. He gestured lazily to his men.
“Leave the boys,” he said. “They’ll remember tae nae cross me.”
His gaze slid to Peadar, cold and deliberate.
“Tell every clan what ye saw today. Tell them what happens tae men who back me rivals. Tae faithers who raise sons with ideas.”
Then he mounted his horse.
The men melted back into the trees as quickly as they’d come, leaving blood, bodies, and broken breathing behind.
Peadar crawled to Tristan’s side, hands shaking as he pressed down on the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, choking on his own sobs.
“Stay wi’ me,” he begged. “Please—please—”
Tristan’s eyes fluttered open. He tried to grin and failed.
“Couldnae… let him,” he rasped. “Take ye.”
Peadar bowed his head over him, tears burning hot and useless.
Nearby, his father lay dead in the road.
And a few feet away, Tristan’s father lay butchered in the mud, executed not for strategy—but for message.
That was the lesson Drummond wanted taught.
And Peadar learned it.
Perfectly.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
Don’t miss your link to the whole book at the end of the preview.
Chapter One
Buchanan lands, 1653
The smell of peat smoke clung to the morning air as Kenina Buchanan stepped through the oak gate of the tower house and onto the frost-hardened path leading to the village green. Behind her, the courtyard was only beginning to stir with the stable boy sweeping straw, milk pails clattering and the muted voices of her mother and the stewards from the upper windows already counting grain stores for winter.
Frost crackled under her boots. Her braid slipped again and she shoved it back, smearing flour across her temple.
Not exactly the picture of a laird’s daughter.
Yet the moment she stepped beyond the tower’s shadow, Kenina breathed in the morning air. The village felt more like home than the stone walls behind her.
The green spread before her, and with it, the real bustle began. Women arranged food stores, children chased one another with shrieks of victory, and two shepherds were attempting to untangle their sheep, which had inexplicably tied themselves together.
Today was the Gathering of Stores — a yearly preparation where the clan took stock of winter provisions, repaired what needed mending, and ensured no family lacked warmth or food before the cold months arrived. It was her mother’s tradition, but Kenina had taken the work into her own hands years ago.
Martha, the tower’s housekeeper for longer than Kenina could remember, stood beneath the bare rowan tree watching the chaos with a knife in one hand, the other braced on her hip.
When she spotted Kenina crossing the green, she let out a breath she’d clearly been holding.
“Thank God,” she said, not loudly, but with feeling. “I was just thinkin’ if ye didnae show when ye did, I’d have tae choose between feedin’ folk and stranglin’ them.”
Kenina smiled, taking a look at the pile of sacks next to the long table a few steps away from where they stood. “Who’s earned it?”
“Everyone,” Martha replied flatly. “The sheep are tangled, the grain scales are off, and someone’s left the salt uncovered like we’ve an excess of it.”
Kenina glanced around, taking it in. “I’ll deal with the scales first.”
Martha nodded, satisfaction flickering across her face. “Aye. I thought ye would. Barley wants weighing before the sun softens the frost.”
“And the venison?”
“Already hung,” Martha said. “Yer braither saw tae it before first light.”
That earned a brief nod. “He always liked to have things settled before the noise started.”
“Aye,” Martha replied. “He’s careful that way. Knows folk work better when they’re nae guessin’.”
She handed Kenina a filled sack then. “Take that tae the scales. If the weight’s off again, I want it caught before anyone starts arguing about it.”
Kenina took the load, adjusting her grip as the familiar ache settled into her arms. “I’ll see to it.”
“Good,” Martha said, already turning back to the green. “And if those shepherds start in again, tell them the sheep aren’t the problem.”
As Kenina began working, the green filled more fully. Folk drifted closer in ones and twos, drawn by the open sacks and the quiet order taking shape beneath the rowan tree. Barley was weighed. Oats counted. Names marked in chalk beside tallies scratched into a slate board.
This was the part she liked, when chaos thinned into recognizable pattern.
“Lady Kenina,” Deirdre the baker’s wife said, approaching with her youngest perched on her hip. The boy’s nose ran freely, red with cold. “Daes he feel warm tae ye?”
Kenina wiped her hands on her apron and pressed her fingers briefly to the child’s brow. Cool. A little clammy, but no heat beneath it. “Nay fever. He’s been standing by the ovens again, hasn’t he?”
The boy sniffed guiltily.
Kenina continued, “Keep him away from the smoke for a day or two. Let him play outside — wrapped well. If he starts coughing at night, bring him back.”
Deirdre sighed in relief. “Bless ye. The laird should’ve made ye a healer instead of an heiress.”
“She can be both,” Martha muttered, scooping barley into empty sacks with crisp efficiency.
That earned her a faint smile. Deirdre shifted her grip and moved on, the boy already squirming to be let down.
Kenina returned to the grain. The rhythm soothed her. Scoop. Weigh. Tie. Pass it on.
She knew who needed extra. The MacRaes, whose eldest limped too badly now to hunt. Old Morag, whose stores were always thinner than she admitted. She made small adjustments where she could — nothing obvious, nothing that would shame — just enough to keep winter from biting too hard.
A woman caught her wrist briefly as Kenina handed over a sack.
“Bless ye, lass. We are grateful fer yer help.”
The words struck a soft place in her chest. Kenina smiled.
“I just want everyone prepared before the worst of the cold.”
“And they will be. Because of ye.”
She returned to the tally board, chalk dust smearing her fingers as she marked another name. The work demanded attention. That was the point of days like this — not ceremony, not speeches, but presence. Her mother had taught her that early.
If the people see one counting alongside them, they trust the count.
The Buchanans had ruled this way for generations. Quiet authority. Visible hands.
Her father believed a laird who stayed behind stone walls forgot the sound of his people’s needs. Her mother believed that a household — even a clan — ran on preparation more than strength. Kenina had grown up between those truths, carrying both.
She shifted a sack closer to the older men waiting near the fence, watching as they tested the weight with practiced hands. One nodded approval. Another gave a grunt that passed for gratitude. It was enough.
Kenina reached for another sack.
And stopped. She thought she felt the ground tremble.
Her fingers curled once against the coarse cloth of the sack instinctively. But after listening an hearing nothing, she went back to filling the sack up,
The sound of horses suddenly filled the air and Kenina froze mid-motion. “Did ye feel—?”
A scream cut her off.
It didn’t sound like a child’s squeal of play, but the kind that scraped bone.
Kenina’s heart lurched. She spun toward the sound.
A horn blast shattered the morning. Kenina’s heart punched against her ribs. “That’s not ours.”
Chaos hit like a wave.
Mothers grabbed children. Men dashed for tools that could pass as weapons. Dogs barked madly, sensing the fear before the humans did.
“The Grahams!” someone shouted from the wall. “The Grahams are here! It’s another raid.”
Kenina dropped her basket so hard its contents scattered across the dirt. “We need tae move, help me get the children inside the storehouse!” she screamed to a villager, Fergus, who stood nearby.
A group of little ones stood frozen near the well, eyes huge, unsure where to run. Another horn wailed, closer this time.
“Fergus!” she barked. “Take the children—go!”
To his credit, he didn’t argue. He scooped up a crying toddler and herded three others with frantic gestures.
At the far end of the green, a woman stumbled from between the cottages, blood streaking her sleeve, eyes wide with terror.
“Raiders!” she shrieked. “From the east road! Raiders!”
Martha stormed over to their side, swearing under her breath. “Where’s the laird? Where’s yer faither? They were out huntin’ —”
“Aye,” Kenina breathed, throat tight. “And Lachlan with them. He was leadin’ the younger men.”
Martha swore — an old Hebridean curse sharp enough to cut the air. “Saints preserve us. That means half the trained fighters are gone.”
In an instant she understood. The raiders had chosen their moment well. Too well.
Before Kenina could answer, another scream split the morning. This one was closer.
Followed by a crack—wood hitting wood. Or skull.
Kenina caught Martha by the wrist before she could step forward. The woman had gone still, eyes fixed beyond the green, mouth parted as if she’d forgotten how to close it.
“Martha,” Kenina said low. “Look at me.”
Martha blinked once, then dragged in a breath through her nose. Her grip tightened in return.
“Listen,” Kenina said, voice dropping. “If they were after cattle, they’d have turned toward the lower fields by now.”
Martha turned to look beyond the green. Kenina followed her gaze. The riders were angling straight through the narrow road between the cottages.
“Too tight a line,” Martha trembled. “No scatter.
Kenina’s jaw set. “They’re comin’ straight fer the green.”
Martha drew in a breath. “Aye.”
Kenina’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a chance raid. Someone knew the laird was gone.”
She turned, skirts already gathered in one hand as she moved. “Martha — get the elderly inside the chapel and the granary. Bar the doors. Anyone who can’t move fast goes with ye.”
Martha hesitated only a heartbeat, then nodded once and moved, voice rising sharp and commanding.
Another crash shook the ground beneath their feet
Kenina didn’t think. She lunged toward the group of children nearest her.
“Breanna!” she shouted. “Gather the wee ones—now!”
Breanna froze in fright.
Kenina grabbed her shoulders. “Look at me.”
The girl’s eyes locked on hers.
“We go tae the barley store. It’s thick-walled and it stays cool, they won’t think to look there. Ye run first. Run!”
Breanna nodded once, then bolted, calling the younger children with frantic whispers.
Kenina pivoted, scanning the green. She spotted two boys near the well clutching each other, rooted in terror. She swore softly as she ran over to them, dropping to one knee so she was eye level, voice sharp but steady despite having run a little distance.
“Listen tae me. Ye’re goin’ tae run straight tae the storehouse. Dae ye see it? Good. Dinnae stop. Dinnae look back.”
One of them shook so badly she thought he might cry.
She pressed her palm flat between his shoulder blades. “Ye’re brave enough,” she said quietly. “Now go.”
They nodded, trembling. She pushed them forward, urging them into motion.
Kenina turned back just as the first raiders broke fully onto the green. They were fur-clad and armed with axes and hooked blades already slick with someone else’s blood, their blood-red cloaks snapping behind them. But it was the colors that marked them unmistakably, the deep forest green and black tartan of Clan Graham, crossed over their shoulders and cinched at their belts. Bronze wolf-head brooches—their clan’s sigil—glinted at their throats.
Behind her, someone shouted in triumph. A heavy thud followed—someone falling. She didn’t turn, she kept running.
Smoke began to curl from somewhere—she didn’t want to think where.
Kenina found and herded four more toward the storehouse. She ducked into the storehouse and shoved the door closed, wedging a broken crate against it, then crouched.
The air inside was cool and thick with the smell of grain. Shapes huddled in the shadows — small bodies, pressed close, barely breathing.
“Stay quiet,” she whispered. “Dinnae move unless I tell you.”
“Lady Kenina…” one boy whimpered, lip trembling.
She brushed his hair back. “I’ll be right here. Ye’ll be safe. I promise.”
Kenina looked around. Another scream sounded—this one closer. Metal clashed violently. The Grahams had breached the outer line already.
Where were Faither and Maither? Where was her brother Lachlan? The warriors should have been there by now.
“Breanna!” she whispered, her eyes straining into the dark. “Breanna, are ye here?”
For a heartbeat there was nothing then a tiny whisper came from behind the barrels, “Here!”
Relief nearly buckled her. Kenina swallowed it down and murmured. “Good lass.”
A small face peered out from behind the stacked barrels, eyes too wide, one clamped over her mouth, the other holding a small human figure.
Kenina crouched and scanned them quickly. Ten. No, twelve. Breanna walked to the center, arms wrapped tight around the youngest, jaw set hard in a way that made Kenina’s chest tighten.
She went to them, moving carefully so her boots didn’t scrape.
She turned as the rest of the kids began to gather around her.
“All right,” she murmured, voice low and even. “Listen tae me. All of ye.”
A few faces tilted toward her. One child’s breath hitched.
“Nay crying,” Kenina said gently. “Nay whispering. Nay matter what ye hear. The walls here are thick. They willnae hear ye if ye dinnae give them reason.”
She met each child’s eyes in turn, holding their attention until the panic eased, just a fraction.
“If ye’re scared,” she went on, “ye hold the grain sacks. Feel them. Count them if ye need tae. But ye stay right here.”
She turned to Breanna and adjusted the girl’s shawl, tugging it low.
“Ye’re the oldest,” Kenina said quietly. “That means ye’re in charge now.”
Breanna’s eyes widened. “Me?”
“Aye. Ye.” Kenina kept her voice calm, certain. “If I dinnae come back right away, ye keep them here. Ye dinnae move unless the chapel bell rings twice. Dae ye understand?”
Breanna swallowed, lip trembling, then nodded. Hard.
She cupped the girl’s cheek, thumb pressing gently beneath her ear, then pushed the barrel just enough to shadow her completely.
“Good lass,” she whispered. “Stay.”
She straightened slowly and moved to the door. There was a crack between the boards where the latch didn’t quite meet. She leaned close and peered out.
The green was no longer chaos — it was worse. Men moving with intent now, fanning out, checking doors, prodding at sheds.
A couple of them were angling that way.
Too close. Kenina’s pulse steadied, sharp and cold. If they reached the storehouse, they would search it.
She leaned back from the door and closed her eyes for one breath.
Then she made her choice.
She turned to Breanna one last time. “Nay matter what ye hear,” she said softly, “ye keep them quiet.”
Kenina slipped out the door, but she did not run. She walked, just long enough to be seen — long enough for a shadow to catch movement where none should be.
Then she broke into a run.
Her boots struck stone as her skirts swung wide. One of the men shouted. Another laughed.
“Ye there!”
Kenina cut left, then right, keeping to open ground, letting them see her just enough to think they had her measure. She vaulted a low fence and let herself stumble, heard them surge closer.
Good.
She ran harder now, breath burning, heart pounding in her ears. She knocked over a stack of crates, sent them crashing down behind her, and bought herself seconds.
Hooves thundered somewhere. Steel rang.
She didn’t look back, she didn’t need to. She knew they were chasing.
And the storehouse with the children inside it were already fading behind her.
Her lungs were on fire now. Each breath scraped raw, the cold air cutting deeper than the pain in her legs. The ground sloped unevenly ahead, frost slick beneath her boots, and she knew—too late—that she had misjudged the turn.
Her foot slid.
She caught herself on a post, spun and a hand closed around her cloak.
The fabric tore with a sound like a gunshot in the quiet between shouts.
Kenina stumbled forward, dragged back a half step, then wrenched free as the cloak ripped clean from her shoulders. She ran again, skirts gathered, hair coming loose down her back.
Almost clear. Something struck the back of her knee.
Pain exploded. Her leg buckled and she went down hard, palms slamming into frozen earth. The shock knocked the breath from her chest in a sharp, humiliating gasp.
“Found ye,” growled a man in a matted wolf-pelt cloak. His accent was thick, his smile a jagged line. “A pretty one.”
She tried to scramble up.
A boot came down on her calf.
Not crushing. Just enough.
“Stay,” a voice growled above her. Calm. Certain.
She clawed at the ground, fingers slipping in mud and frost. Another hand caught her braid and yanked her head back before she could rise. Her scalp burned. Stars burst behind her eyes.
She cried out despite herself.
Kenina clawed at his wrist, twisting, kicking—anything. But he was stronger, dragging her upright by her hair.
“Let me go!” she spat, scrambling for footing.
He only laughed, breath reeking of ale and rot.
She grabbed his knife hand with both of hers and drove her knee upward. He grunted, grip faltering, and she broke free long enough to stagger back—
But another grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms. Kenina screamed, fury lacing her voice. “Cowards! Let me go!”
The wolf-pelt raider recovered quickly, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand as he approached her again.
“Fiery,” he said with a grin. “Good. The laird will like that.”
She looked back for a split second only to see Fergus rushing towards the raider.
Where had he come from? No!
He suddenly barreled into the raider with a broken spear shaft, throwing him off balance for half a heartbeat.
“Run!” he shouted.
A massive arm hooked around her waist.
She gasped as the world spun sideways. The raider she’d lost sight of hauled her back by sheer brute force.
“Let—go—of me!” She drove her elbow back, catching him in the ribs. He grunted but didn’t loosen his grip.
Fergus lunged again, but another Graham slammed into him, sending him sprawling across the dirt. His body fell limp.
“Fergus!”
Her scream tore raw from her throat.
He reached for her helplessly, breath knocked from his chest. “K-Keni—!”
The raider hoisted her off her feet as if she weighed nothing. Kenina kicked, clawed, twisted—her braid snapped against her cheek, her lungs burned with terror.
“Faither!” she screamed. “Lachlan!”
She was thrown to her knees and the wolf-pelt man grabbed her chin roughly.
“Where’s yer laird, girl?”
Kenina glared, breathing hard through pain. “Coming fer ye.”
Another strike, backhanded this time, snapped her head sideways. She fell to the side hitting her head hard on a tree.
Through the ringing in her ears, she heard the distant horn.
A deep, familiar bellow echoing through the trees.
Her father’s war horn.
Her heart soared—only for the hope to crack an instant later as the raider behind her tightened his grip.
“Take her,” wolf-pelt ordered. “Before the laird’s men arrive.”
“Nay!” Kenina kicked, twisted, fought wildly but the world was tilting, her senses spinning from the blow.
They dragged her toward the tree line, boots skidding across frost, her fingers scraping hopelessly against the earth.
Kenina went, stumbling once, then straightening despite the pain screaming through her knee. She lifted her chin as they marched her back toward the green.
The children were hidden. They had chased her.
She had done what she had set out to do.
Then the raiders pulled Kenina into the cold of the forest just as the horns of her father’s warriors thundered onto the green.
Chapter Two
Kenina woke to the sway of movement and the sting of rope biting into her wrists.
Cold air slapped her face as the hood was yanked off. Dawn had barely broken, but the world already felt grey and starved of warmth. She was tied to a long, thick rope that connected her to a line of other captives—villagers, a few younger warriors, two boys scarcely older than twelve. Their breaths steamed into the air like frightened ghosts.
A Graham rider on horseback barked, “On yer feet! Move!”
The prisoners stumbled forward. Kenina forced herself upright, legs shaking with the lingering shock of being dragged half-conscious through the forest. Her throat ached from screaming. Her wrists pulsed where the rough bindings scraped her skin.
Two Grahams pushed her forward.
She stumbled. “I can walk, ye bastards!”
A sharp fist slammed into her stomach. She doubled over, gasping.
“Try that tone again—see what happens,” the rider snarled, yanking her hair.
Kenina spat blood onto his boot.
He kicked her in the ribs.
A few villagers cried out for him to stop, but a sword pointed their way silenced them.
Kenina straightened slowly. Pain wriggled beneath her ribs like a hot coal, but she refused to bend again. The chain of prisoners trudged on.
The cold forest creaked around them. Frost coated the ground. Crows circled overhead, their calls sharp and mocking. Kenina’s breath was shallow, each inhalation tasted of iron and damp earth. They had walked for hours the day before and her mind kept flashing images of Fergus lying in the dirt like a broken doll. Were there even survivors?
She swallowed hard.
Time dissolved into the ache in her ankles and the rawness of her throat. The Grahams kept a relentless pace, whipping anyone who slowed.
By midday, the trees had thinned, revealing a squat stone fort pressed against a ridge. Smoke rose from its chimneys and wooden palisades ringed the walls, scarred by years of raids.
Two Graham sentries watched the prisoners approach with bored amusement. One of the leered at the prisoners. “More stock, aye? Good haul by the look o’ them.”
Kenina’s jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached.
Inside the gates, the prisoners were corralled into a muddy yard as men inspected them like livestock. Some collapsed immediately. Kenina stayed standing by sheer force of will. Some Grahams poked at injuries, lifted chins, pulled hair, appraised muscle.
One grabbed Kenina’s chin. “Pretty one. She’ll fetch high.”
“She’ll bite yer bloody fingers off,” she snapped, jerking her face away.
He raised a hand to strike her. But a voice cut through the yard like a blade:
“Enough.”
The murmuring died instantly.
The crowd parted as a man approached.
Tall, well-kept, with a wolf-pelt cloak bearing his colors draped over his broad shoulders, he walked with an air of ownership. His cold eyes swept across the prisoners.
Kenina had heard plenty about him. Keir Graham, the border laird who raided not for vengeance, but for profit. A man who smiled at cruelty because he found something pleasing in it.
Then he saw her.
The corners of his mouth curled slowly, as though savoring the sight. “Well now,” he said softly, “look at ye.”
Her stomach dipped. She tried to keep her expression blank. She would die before giving him fear.
Graham took his time walking around her, steps measured, hands clasped behind his back. His gaze moved over her as if taking inventory. She felt stripped without a finger laid on her.
“I ken ye,” he murmured. “From Buchanan lands.”
Kenina swallowed. “I dinnae ken ye.”
“Oh, but ye dae,” he said softly. “Yer faither showed ye off once, years ago, when I visited tae settle a border dispute. Ye were what—sixteen? Already a beauty. Already proud.”
He leaned in just enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath. “I didnae expect one of yer quality tae fall intae me lap.” His smile widened, sick with pleasure. “Coin like this only comes once.”
Her jaw clenched. “I’m nae coin.”
He tapped her cheek once lightly. “Aye, lass,” he whispered. “Ye are exactly that.”
His fingers brushed her hair.
She recoiled as if burned. “Touch me again, and I’ll tear your hand off.”
He laughed low and delighted.
“Spirited. I remember thinkin’ it then. And now look at ye…” His gaze sharpened into hunger. “A rare prize indeed. I thought I’d never catch such a gem fer me auctions. The nobles in the east will fight over ye.”
The Graham warriors laughed at their laird’s words.
Kenina’s heart slammed painfully against her ribs.
Auction?
He turned away, already speaking to the guards.
“Get her washed. Fed. Nae too much—dinnae soften her. She goes tae auction tomorrow.”
***
The hood scratched against Peadar’s jaw as he moved through the shadows of the ruined stables, the scent of old leather and damp hay thick in the cold night air. His breath ghosted before him, visible in the lamplight spilling from the half-open barn doors ahead.
The stench of tallow smoke clung to Peadar’s clothes as he slipped into the back of the Graham byre. Lamps flickered low, shadows moving across the walls like restless spirits. Men crowded the room, muttering, jostling, boots grinding straw into the dirt.
He kept his hood low. Tristan walked at his shoulder, stiff as a pike.
“Saints,” Tristan muttered. “If filth had a home—”
“Keep yer tongue quiet,” Peadar said under his breath. “Grahams have ears like rats.”
His own pulse thrummed with a familiar coldness — the same cold that carried him through battles, ambushes, funerals.
Taenight, we get what we came fer. Drummond falls.
“Ye remember the plan,” Tristan murmured without looking at him.
Tristan’s mouth pulled tight. “Then let’s pray tae God ye follow yer own instructions.”
Peadar didn’t dignify that with an answer.
He scanned the byre, taking notes of crates, of several slaves, stolen goods and livestock penned for sale. The air was warmer, but only because of bodies — men pressed shoulder to shoulder, breath sour with ale and anticipation. Lanterns hung on hooks between wooden beams, throwing slick amber light across a makeshift platform at the far end. A long table stood near it, cluttered with ledgers, quills, and coin purses.
Torcull Drummond stood at the front, smug as a crowned pig — fox-fur cloak, jeweled brooch, drink in hand, his belly straining against his belt.
Peadar’s jaw tightened. Drummond. The man who had set the war in motion, the man who had burned Glen Torrin, the man who had stood watching while Peadar’s mother had screamed.
His hand twitched toward the dagger hidden under his cloak.
“Easy,” Tristan warned.
“I’m calm,” Peadar murmured.
He wasn’t.
Tristan shot him a warning glance. “We dinnae intervene,” he whispered. “Nae unless ‘tis proof or Torcull himself.”
Peadar didn’t respond. He focused on his breathing instead. Rage had no place there. Rage made men stupid, and stupid men got caught.
They found a narrow place near the back wall, half-hidden behind stacked sacks of grain. A perfect vantage point. Perfect distance. The place where a man could watch everything without being watched himself.
Peadar leaned against the wall, arms folded, feigning the indifference of a man who’d come for bargains. Then the auction started.
Keir Graham, the Graham laird stomped onto the platform. “Taenight,” he called, “we’ve goods rare and fine. Weapons. Livestock. Servants.” He grinned, revealing a row of yellow teeth. “And a treasure or two.”
Disgust crawled up Peadar’s throat, but he didn’t move.
The auction began and the men present started making their bids. After about half an hour Keir Graham stepped back out.
“Next lot!” he announced with a sly smile. “Clan Buchanan’s prized heir.”
A Graham guard dragged Kenina forward by the arm. She stumbled, caught herself, then straightened her spine.
A murmur went through the crowd. Peadar felt it like a shift in air pressure. Clan Buchanan? He narrowed his eyes, confused. Buchanan heirs did not end up on auction blocks by accident. Why would a Buchanan heir be—
The girl was pushed into the lamplight, and Peadar forgot to breathe.
Her wrists were bound loosely, rope more for display than restraint, but it drew the eye to the narrowness of her waist, the clean lines of her arms. Her dress hung torn and dirty at the hem, clinging in places where it had no right to cling.
The bodice was creased and pulled, the fabric stretched over a figure that was unmistakably female — slim but full where it mattered, hips soft beneath the rough wool, shoulders straight with a strength that had nothing to do with delicacy.
Her chestnut hair fell in thick dark braids, loosened from struggle, glossy even in the poor light. A few strands had escaped, brushing her cheek, catching at her mouth. Her lips were parted just slightly, breath controlled but fast, as if she were forcing herself not to show how hard that cost her.
She lifted her chin.
The lamplight caught her face fully then, and Peadar felt the hit of it low and hard in his gut.
She was beautiful. Beautiful in a way that drew attention whether she wanted it or not. High cheekbones dusted with freckles and grime, a mouth made for smiles rather than frowns, her hazel eyes dark and sharp beneath strong brows — eyes that did not plead, even then. There was fear there, aye, but it was reined in, held tight behind iron control.
Something cold plunged through Peadar’s gut, so sharp it stole his breath.
She was too much woman for this place.
She did not look like a girl who broke easily.
Tristan leaned close. “Is that—?”
“Aye,” Peadar muttered. “Buchanan blood.”
He told himself to look away. He couldn’t.
Because every man in the room was looking at her, with hunger, ownership, calculation. Their eyes dragged over her openly— the line of her throat, the curve of her waist, the way her breasts rose beneath the torn bodice when she drew breath.
His jaw tightened.
Torcull Drummond stepped out of the crowd, his grin widening. “At last,” he drawled loudly. “A lass worth me coin.”
Several men laughed.
The girl flinched. Not outwardly but Peadar saw the quick pulse at her throat, the way her fingers curled, white-knuckled, around the rope.
Keir Graham leered. “Here she is, lairds—Kenina Buchanan, blood heir tae everyone’s favorite enemies. Look at her. Fine bones. Fine breeding. Fine future fer any man who can keep her… compliant.”
A ripple of lewd laughter passed through the hall.
He saw her jaw tighten.
He looked Kenina over slowly, deliberately.
“Turn her,” he ordered the guard.
The guard shoved her by the shoulder. She jerked away but didn’t have the strength to stop him. Her braid swung loose, dark against her pale skin.
Then Torcull clicked his tongue. “Bonnie, in a fragile sort of way. Pity about her clan. They’ve always been stubborn bastards.”
Graham clapped. “We’ll start the bidding at forty sovereigns.”
“Forty?” someone barked. “Fer a lass?”
“She’s an heiress,” another argued. “Worth ten times that.”
“Aye, if ye want trouble with the Buchanans,” someone else scoffed.
Drummond wagged his finger. “I’ll start the bid. Forty sovereigns.”
Gasps rippled. That was enough to buy cattle herds.
Graham nearly choked on his spit. “Ah—aye, Laird Drummond begins with forty!”
A man to Peadar’s right snickered. “He wants her fer more than politics, eh?”
“Likely as nae,” another said, “he’ll breed her quiet.”
“Aye,” came the reply. “And what Torcull wants, Torcull takes.”
Peader frowned, his mind turning in circles. He told himself she was not his concern. He didn’t even like the Buchanans, but this? This was filth. The same filth that had filled the war. Men who believed no one could stop them. His eyes stayed on her.
Peader watched as she swallowed hard, her eyes flicking across the room.
Drummond lifted his chin. “Fifty.”
The byre buzzed again.
Peadar forced himself to breathe.
Stay focused. Get the evidence. Leave.
“Fifty,” Drummond said, savoring it.
The girl’s face drained of color.
Peadar didn’t realize he’d straightened away from the wall until Tristan’s fingers dug into his sleeve.
Peadar’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. Tristan elbowed him. “Dinnae even think—”
“Fifty-one.” The word left Peadar’s mouth before Tristan finished his sentence.
The room snapped toward him. Silence fell, heavy and dangerous.
Drummond’s head jerked around. “Who said that?”
Peadar stepped forward, pulling back his hood. The murmurs swelled — some startled, some amused, some afraid.
Tristan hissed through his teeth, “Ye bloody lunatic. Ye gone and done it.”
Graham blinked at Peadar. “S–sir, that’s—”
Torcull cut in, voice like steel dragged over stone. “Name yerself, stranger.”
Peadar lifted his chin just enough to show the line of his jaw beneath the hood.
“Only a man making a purchase.”
Torcull’s eyes narrowed. “Ye mock me.”
“Nay,” Peadar said calmly. “But if ye think I fear ye… aye, that’s the mockery.”
A few men gasped. Someone whispered, “Christ preserve him.”
A man stepped up to Drummond and whispered into his ear and Drummond turned to stare at Peadar, incredulous. “Ye? The MacGregor mongrel? Ye think tae bid against me?”
Peadar lifted his chin. “I just did.”
Torcull stepped forward, voice low and dangerous. “Dae ye ken who I am?”
Peadar met his stare, cold as winter.
“Oh aye. And I hope ye ken I dinnae back down.”
“Fifty-five,” Drummond snarled, eyes glittering.
Peadar didn’t blink. “Sixty.”
A roar went through the crowd, half shock, half delight at the brewing fight. A man near him coughed ale up his nose.
Drummond’s cheeks reddened with rage. “Ye dare—”
“She looks cold,” Peadar said evenly, cutting him off. “I’d prefer she nae rot afore she’s worth the coin.”
A few men laughed nervously. Drummond’s hand twitched like he wanted his sword, but the Grahams blocked him — no bloodshed till after the auction.
Graham cleared his throat. “Sixty fer the lass—”
“Sixty-one—” Drummond barked.
“Sixty-five,” Peadar said, louder.
His voice vibrated through the rafters.
Kenina’s gaze snapped to him — startled, wary, confused. She looked at him like he was another threat, another enemy.
He ignored the look.
Graham swallowed. “Sixty-five—goin’ once—goin’ twice—”
Drummond took one step toward Peadar.
“Ye are a dead man.”
Peadar didn’t break eye contact. “Get in line.”
“Sold!” Graham shouted, slamming his staff.
The byre erupted in cheers, jeers, curses. Drummond looked murderous.
Peadar’s stomach twisted — not with regret, but with certainty.
He had just made Torcull Drummond his personal enemy.
Good.
He wanted the bastard watching when he destroyed him.
Davina Fletcher stood just beyond the door to her father’s study, her hand resting lightly against the cool stone of the corridor wall, as though it might steady her. Inside, voices rose and fell with the measured cadence of men accustomed to deciding the course of other people’s lives.
Her life.
The door had not been closed fully, which was an oversight, perhaps, or a mercy, and through the narrow opening she could see the edge of her father’s desk and the backs of four unfamiliar men who had entered with him earlier that afternoon. They stood in a loose semicircle, with their cloaks still on their shoulders, as if they had no time for such trivialities.
One of them was Malcolm Kincaid. Only, she didn’t know which.
Davina leaned closer, careful not to let her skirts whisper against the stone.
“…a fair match,” her father was saying in his usual, authoritative tone. “Me daughter is well educated, well mannered, and raised with a full understanding of her duties.”
Duties. The word landed with a familiar weight.
“Aye,” another voice replied. It sounded younger than her father’s. “And Clan Kincaid daesnae enter agreements lightly. Malcolm understands what is expected of him.”
Davina’s breath caught at the name.
So that voice belonged to him or perhaps not. It could just as easily be one of the others. She strained to listen more closely, wishing foolishly that she might glimpse a face, a gesture, anything that would distinguish the man to whom her future was being so neatly assigned.
“The lands bordering the eastern ridge will remain under Fletcher stewardship,” her father continued.
“Of course,” the same voice said. “And in return, the protection of Kincaid arms is assured.”
Davina closed her eyes briefly.
Protection. Assurance. Alliance.
No one had yet spoken her name. She wondered, not for the first time, whether Malcolm Kincaid knew what color her eyes were. She wondered whether he laughed easily and whether he would notice if she went quiet when angered, or if she hummed when tired.
Inside the study, the discussion gathered pace.
“The contract can be signed within the month,” her father said. “Me daughter will be ready.”
“Aye,” another man replied. “Witnesses from both clans, of course.”
“And the dowry?” asked the smooth voice again, the one that might belong to Malcolm, or might not.
“It will reflect the strength of this alliance,” her father answered. “As will the expectations placed upon the bride.”
“The marriage must be consummated promptly,” someone added, matter-of-factly. “There can be nay doubt of legitimacy.”
Davina’s fingers curled where they rested against the stone.
Consummated promptly?
“Children will bind the clans further,” another voice agreed. “An heir within the year would be… ideal.”
“Like I said, me daughter understands her duty,” her father said firmly. “She has been raised fer this role.”
“Then we are in accord,” the smooth voice concluded. “Dates, witnesses, lands, protection, everything is agreed.”
A marriage was settled, not as joining of two lives, but as a treaty signed in voices and expectation, while the girl it concerned stood unheard beyond the door.
Suddenly, she heard the chairs scrape softly against the floor.
“Well met,” one man said. “Until we meet again.”
“May this alliance prosper us all,” another added.
Davina’s pulse leapt. She moved at once, gliding back from the door and slipping behind the nearest curtain just as the study door opened. The heavy fabric swallowed her. She felt dust and lavender pressing close as she held her breath.
Boots sounded in the corridor. She peered through a narrow fold.
Four men emerged. Their figures stood dark against the lamplight spilling briefly from the study before the door was shut again. They spoke in murmurs, chuckling here and there, already turning their minds to roads and horses and tomorrow’s concerns.
Then, they headed in the direction opposite to her. Davina strained to see just one profile, just one glance. But the darkness kept its secrets. The last footstep disappeared down the stone passage, and silence returned. Davina let out the breath she had been holding and pressed a hand to her chest. She waited only a moment longer before stepping from behind the curtain.
She inhaled deeply, mustering the courage for what she was about to do. She smoothed her skirts, finding a few invisibles wrinkles that demanded her attention, and proceeded to enter her father’s study as though she had every right to be there…. which, she supposed, she did.
Ramsay Fletcher stood by his desk, pouring himself a measure of whisky. He looked up at once, and his expression softened into unmistakable satisfaction.
“Ah, there ye are, me lass,” he said, gesturing at her to come closer. “I was just about tae send fer ye.”
“I heard voices,” Davina replied carefully. “Yer guests have gone?”
“They have,” he said, setting the glass aside untouched. “And they have left us with excellent news.”
He gestured for her to sit, but she remained standing.
“The matter is settled,” he continued, clearly pleased. “Ye are tae be married tae Malcolm Kincaid.”
Her heart gave a small, traitorous lurch. “When?”
“Within the month,” he said. “The ceremony will take place in Kincaid Castle, tae make it public, dignified, and beyond reproach. Witnesses from both clans. It will send a clear message.”
“A message,” she echoed.
“Aye,” her father confirmed, missing the edge in her tone. “A message of unity, of strength, of prosperity fer both our clans.”
“And Malcolm?” she asked. “What sort of man is he?”
Her father smiled. “A good one. He is ambitious and well-spoken. He understands duty.” He said it as if that was the most important thing in the world. And to him, it was.
Davina folded her hands together to still them. “Will I meet him?”
Her father waved the question aside as though it were of no real consequence. “Nay,” he said. “There is nay need.”
She blinked. “Nay need?”
“The matter is settled,” he continued calmly. “Ye will marry. Whether ye meet him beforehand or nae makes little difference.”
Davina’s fingers tightened. “I would have thought it might matter somewhat. He is tae be me husband.”
Her father regarded her with mild surprise, as though she had asked why the sun rose in the morning. “It is nae affection we are securing, Davina. It is alliance.”
She drew a careful breath. “Even so—”
“Ye have been raised tae understand this,” he interrupted her gently, but firmly. “Marriage is nae a courtship tale. It is duty, stability and continuity. Malcolm Kincaid understands this, as dae I. And ye will as well.”
Her voice softened, though the words did not. “I should like tae ken the man whose life I am meant tae share.”
Her father shook his head. “Ye will ken him well enough after the vows are spoken. Before that, it daesnae matter.”
Davina lowered her gaze, schooling her expression into calm obedience, just as she had been taught to do.
“Very well,” she said.
Her father smiled again, evidently satisfied with her behavior. “Good. There is nay sense in troubling yerself over details that cannae change.”
He turned back toward his desk, already reaching for a stack of papers. The matter was clearly concluded in his mind.
“If ye are inclined tae trouble yerself with anything,” he added, almost kindly, “ye may occupy yer thoughts with the gown or the flowers. Those choices are yers.”
She lifted her eyes then. “The flowers?”
“Aye,” he responded.
Davina inclined her head once more. “I will give it due consideration.”
“That is all I ask,” her father replied, already eyeing a ledger. “Ye may go.”
She turned toward the door. Only when she reached the threshold did she pause, allowing her fingers to rest lightly against the wood.
“The gown, then,” she said quietly.
“Aye,” her father replied without looking up. “Make it a fine one.”
Davina stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind her. The latch clicked softly. She stood there for a moment and wondered how it was that the most significant decision of her life had been reduced to silk and blossoms.
Then she lifted her chin and walked on, carrying with her the knowledge that while her future had been decided, she had been given, at least, the illusion of choice.
And she would learn, in time, what such illusions were worth.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
Don’t miss your link to the whole book at the end of the preview.
Chapter One
1378, Kincaid Castle
“Naething must go wrong today, Davina,” Ramsay Fletcher told his daughter as he adjusted the edge of his tartan. “This union is the finest match our clan has secured in a generation. The eyes of half the Highlands are upon us.”
Davina’s eyes drifted to the great doors at the end of the corridor, which gleamed ominously. Beyond them lay the grand hall of Kincaid Castle, where nobles gathered, where candles burned low, and where Malcolm Kincaid waited. Her fingers tightened around her bouquet.
“I hope tae bring ye nay cause fer embarrassment, Faither.”
“Ye’ll dae more than that,” he said, and his tone seemed to soften, albeit only slightly. “Ye’ll raise our name. A Fletcher bound tae the Kincaids, just think of it! Yer children will carry a bloodline fit fer court.” His chest swelled with pride. “Aye, me dear, this is how legacies are made.”
Eleonor Fletcher was standing behind her daughter, and she leaned in to brush a stray curl from beneath the lace veil. “Legacies are well enough, Ramsay,” she murmured, “but it is her life, nae ours, that begins today.”
Ramsay gave her a brief look. “And what is a life without honor and position, Eleonor? Ye ken well the world we live in. The clans remember who climbs and who falls.”
Davina nodded obediently. “I understand, Faither. Me duty is clear.”
Her mother frowned. “Duty should nae eclipse happiness.”
Her father agreed. “Happiness is a fickle thing, me dear, but worth finding. Malcolm is a fine man, well-bred and mannerly. There’s nay reason ye should nae be content with him.”
Eleonor’s fingers lingered on Davina’s shoulder. “Contentment and joy are nae the same.”
“I will find both,” Davina said, though she was uncertain whom she meant to convince: her mother, her father, or herself.
Ramsay straightened, satisfied. “Good lass. When the doors open, walk with pride. Every whisper in that hall will speak our name, and I’ll have them speak it with admiration.”
The faint echo of music drifted through the corridor, signaling that the guests had taken their seats. The grand doors of the castle hall gleamed ahead, heavy with expectation.
Eleonor’s hand trembled slightly as she adjusted the edge of Davina’s veil. “Ye look beautiful, me love.”
Davina smiled, and the uneasiness seemed to dissipate, if only a little. “Thank ye, Mama.”
Ramsay cleared his throat. “It is time. Hold yer head high, Davina. Today, ye are nae merely a bride, ye are the bridge between two great clans.”
She nodded, steadying her breath. “Then may the bridge hold.”
With that, Ramsay offered his arm. The music swelled beyond the doors, and Davina stepped forward. The doors creaked open with a deep, echoing groan, and a hundred eyes tuned toward her at once.
She could see Malcolm Kincaid standing at the altar, tall and smiling faintly. His dark hair was catching the sunlight that poured through the stained glass. His eyes were bright gray, like a Highland storm, and now, they met hers with calm reassurance. For one small moment, her fear eased.
But then, another pair of eyes caught her attention. Her heart beat was meant for the vows to come, yet her world tilted upon seeing this man. A pale scar slashed his cheek, further pulling her attention toward him. He wasn’t smiling and somehow, that made him even more magnetic. There was power in his silent gaze, in the way that he simply was.
She reminded herself why she was there and started walking. She reached the halfway point of the aisle. Nobles watched in silence, enshrouded in a sea of silk and tartan. Her breath came slowly and carefully, beneath the lace veil, as if it cost her dearly to simply breathe.
Almost there. Almost done.
Then suddenly, just as her father was about to give her hand to Malcolm, one of the candles flickered as if the chamber itself held its breath. Davina looked up, and Malcolm’s smile faltered. His hand flew to his chest.
At first, she thought he meant to steady himself. But his fingers clenched hard, twisting the fabric of his coat. His face drained of color. His lips parted soundlessly.
“Malcolm?” Davina’s voice was barely a whisper.
He swayed. The bouquet slipped from her hand. Before she could reach him, he dropped to his knees with a strangled gasp and his eyes wide in shock. The music faltered, then stopped altogether. A terrible silence followed.
Davina froze where she stood. The world narrowed to the scent of lilies, the crackle of candles and the thundering in her ears. Malcolm’s stillness was unbearable. She wanted to move, to speak, but her voice caught in her throat.
Then someone screamed.
Davina couldn’t move. Her hands shook as she lifted her veil. “What… what’s happening?” she whispered.
Chaos erupted. Shouts filled the air while the solemn order of the ceremony shattered like glass.
“Stand back!”
The voice belonged to the man with the scar, and only then did she realize who he was. Baird Kincaid’s voice cut through the confusion like a blade. He jumped up from the front row and reached his brother’s side, dropping to one knee. His large hands were now gripping Malcolm’s shoulders.
“Malcolm, speak tae me!”
But there was no answer and no movement save the slack fall of his arm.
“Fetch the healer!” Baird shouted, and a servant bolted through the chapel doors.
Moments later, the healer burst through, with his satchel clutched tight. He knelt beside Malcolm with practiced speed, pressing his fingers to the fallen man’s neck, then his wrist. His brow furrowed.
“Clear the space,” he said curtly. “Nay one touch him.”
“Ye heard the man!” Baird shouted to those who were still too close.
Davina watched desperately as the healer drew a small vial from his bag, opened Malcolm’s coat, and pressed a hand to his chest. “He still has warmth,” he muttered. “It may nae be too late.” He poured the contents between Malcolm’s lips, then began pressing rhythmically against his ribs, muttering a prayer under his breath.
The hall was silent but for that steady, desperate motion.
Davina clasped her hands together. Her mother had appeared at her side, whispering her name, but Davina could not hear her. Her eyes were locked on the scene at the altar: the healer’s hands, Baird’s face and the awful stillness of Malcolm’s body.
“Come on, lad,” Baird urged through clenched teeth. “Breathe! Breathe!”
But no breath came.
The healer stopped at last, his movements slowing. He pressed his ear to Malcolm’s chest, then drew back with a long, weary sigh.
“It is of nay use,” he said quietly. “He’s gone.”
The words struck the room like a physical blow. A woman sobbed aloud; another fainted near the front. Baird’s head bowed. For a moment he did not move. Then, very slowly, he lifted his brother’s hand and let it fall again, lifeless.
“God have mercy,” he whispered.
Davina felt her knees weaken. Her father’s arm caught her before she fell.
“Steady, lass,” Ramsay murmured, though his own face had gone pale. “Steady.”
Suddenly, the alarm bells tolled in the distance, and the sound rattled through the hall. Servants shouted in the corridors. A soldier burst through the side door, breathless and pale.
“Me laird, an intruder’s been sighted inside the castle!”
Baird turned with blazing eyes. “Where?”
“Near the west stair, me laird… armed.”
A curse escaped him. He looked to his brother’s still form, then to Davina. “So it’s nae enough tae strike him dead, now they hunt the rest of us.”
Davina’s heart jolted. “Ye think this is connected?”
“I’d stake me name on it,” Baird said. “Whoever killed Malcolm’s nae done.” His tone left no room for doubt. He strode toward her. “Ye cannae stay here.”
Ramsay stepped forward. “She’s with me, Kincaid. I’ll see tae me own daughter’s safety.”
Baird’s gaze cut to him. “Yer name daes nae carry the keys tae this castle, Fletcher. Mine daes. If they came fer Malcolm, they may come fer her next. I’ll nae argue it.”
Davina’s voice shook, though she tried to steady it. “Ye think they would… hurt me?”
“They’ll dae worse if they mean tae break me clan,” Baird said. “We move now.”
Davina’s pulse thundered in her ears. She hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Very well. Lead the way.”
Baird took her hand, guiding her down the side aisle. His grip was warm and his movements swift.
“Stay close,” he said. “Dinnae speak unless I tell ye.”
Her mother called after her. “Davina!”
Davina turned long enough to meet her mother’s frightened eyes. “I’ll be safe,” she promised, though she scarcely believed it herself.
They slipped through a narrow door behind the altar, into a corridor lit by torches. The air there was cooler and quieter, but the alarm bells echoed even through the stone. Baird’s pace was relentless.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Tae the upper rooms, they’ll be guarded.”
“And me maither and faither?”
“He will keep them both safe,” Baird assured her without looking back. “Ye’re the one they’d use as leverage.”
His words made her stomach twist. “Why me?”
“Because ye were meant tae unite us,” he said grimly. “And naething weakens a pact faster than fear.”
They turned a corner. Behind them, shouts grew louder.
Davina gripped her skirts, breathless. “Me laird—”
“Quiet.” He slowed, glancing back toward the chapel doors. “They’re coming this way.”
The corridor stretched before them, long and dim. The sound of running feet echoed through it, not from behind this time, but ahead.
Baird’s hand tightened on her arm. “Stay behind me,” he ordered and there was steel in every syllable. “Whatever happens, dae nae run unless I tell ye tae.”
Somewhere ahead, a shout split the air. “Stop him!”
Baird turned sharply. “There!”
A figure burst from the shadows at the far end of the corridor. Whoever it was, he was masked, cloaked and running for his life in a blur of dark motion. Guards gave chase behind him, with their swords drawn, but the intruder was desperate, which provided him with the edge of speed and surprise.
“Back!” Baird ordered, shoving Davina behind him.
She pressed against the cold wall, while her heart was hammering. The intruder’s steps pounded closer, echoing off the stone. His cloak snapped behind him as he darted past a torch and for an instant, Davina saw the flash of a blade. The man was coming straight for them.
Baird drew his sword in one swift motion. “Stop, in the name of Clan Kincaid!”
But the intruder did not slow. The guards were too far behind, shouting warnings that came too late.
“Watch out!” Davina cried, but before she could take another breath, the masked man lunged.
Baird swung, steel ringing against stone as the intruder ducked beneath his strike. In the next heartbeat, Davina felt a rough hand seize her arm. She gasped, feeling the world tilt as she was pulled sharply back.
Cold metal pressed to her throat.
“Stay back!” the intruder hissed in a voice that was muffled beneath the mask. “One step closer and she dies!”
Davina’s breath caught in terror. The knife trembled against her skin, close enough that she could feel its chill. Baird froze where he stood, his sword raised but his eyes locked on hers.
“Let her go,” Baird snarled.
The intruder shifted, dragging Davina half a step closer to him. “Drop the blade.”
Baird’s grip tightened on the hilt. “Ye’ve nay chance of leaving this castle alive.”
“Perhaps nae,” the man spat venomously, “but others like me will follow, be assured of that.”
Davina barely dared to move, her pulse pounding so hard she could hear it. Her gaze flicked to Baird, getting lost in his eyes which were like storm clouds, calculating his next movement.
“Baird,” she whispered his name.
“I’ve got ye, lass,” he murmured, taking a careful step forward.
“Nae another inch!” the intruder shouted, pressing the knife harder.
Baird stopped. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Danger closed in, sharp as a blade poised to cut her life short.
Chapter Two
The knife pressed harder, cold and sharp against Davina’s throat. She dared not breathe too deeply. One movement and it might all be over.
“Please,” she whispered, not sure to whom she spoke: to Baird, to the heavens, or to the man who held her life in his hands.
“Quiet,” the intruder hissed, jerking her closer.
That was his mistake.
In that fraction of a second, Baird moved in a flash of steel. His sword swept upward in a clean, controlled arc, striking the intruder’s wrist with brutal precision. The knife flew from his hand, clattering across the floor.
Davina stumbled away as Baird closed in. The intruder swung wildly, landing a blow against Baird’s shoulder. The clang of metal on metal echoed through the corridor. Baird struck back, a fierce downward slash that the intruder barely dodged. Sparks flew as his blade scraped the wall. The man lunged, catching Baird’s arm, and they crashed hard into the stone.
Davina pressed herself against the wall, watching in horror as the two men fought in a blur of movement and gritted breath. Baird’s strength was relentless; he drove the intruder back with each strike, his sword cutting through the air with savage precision.
The intruder ducked low, grabbed the fallen dagger, and slashed toward Baird’s ribs. Steel grazed flesh. Baird grunted but did not falter. He caught the man’s wrist, twisted sharply, and slammed his fist into the intruder’s jaw.
The masked man staggered. Baird followed through, one hard shove against his chest that sent him sprawling onto the flagstones. The dagger clattered free again. Before he could rise, Baird’s boot pressed down hard on his throat.
“Yield,” Baird growled.
The intruder wheezed, and his eyes were flashing hatred. He tried to reach for another hidden blade, but Baird’s sword was faster, and it acted in a single, brutal thrust beneath the ribs. The breath left the intruder in a ragged gasp.
Baird stepped back as the body of his opponent went still, the scarlet bloom spreading across the man’s tunic. Two guards came sprinting up the corridor.
“Me laird!” one shouted.
Baird didn’t look up. He wiped his blade clean on the dead man’s cloak. “Too late,” he said quietly. “He made his choice.”
Davina pressed a trembling hand to her neck, where the knife had grazed her skin. “It’s over?” she asked softly.
Baird turned to her, his chest rising and falling with the weight of battle. “Fer now.” His voice softened as he stepped closer. “Are ye hurt?”
She shook her head, though her knees threatened to give way. “Only frightened.”
“Ye’ve every right,” he said, sheathing his sword. “But ye kept yer wits. That may have saved us both.”
Baird stood motionless for a moment. The sharpness in his gaze had not dulled. It had simply turned inward, cold calculation overtaking fury.
“Captain,” he called to the man who was closest to him. “Send for the council members, all of them. Me advisors, the Fletcher envoys, anyone of rank who remains in the castle. Bring them tae me study at once.”
The guard hesitated. “Me laird, the corridors—”
“Then clear them,” Baird snapped. “Now.”
The man hurried off.
“Ye should sit,” Baird turned to her. “Ye’ve been through enough.”
“I’m fine,” she replied, though her voice trembled. “Just… unsteady.”
He offered his arm. “Come with me, then. The study’s secure. We need tae speak, tae decide what comes next.”
She hesitated only a moment before taking his arm. His grip was firm, grounding her as they moved through the castle’s narrow halls. Guards lined the corridors now, but somehow, that didn’t make her feel any safer. They reached a tall oak door at the end of the corridor. Two guards stepped aside as Baird pushed it open, ushering her inside. The study was dimly lit, lined with books and maps.
Baird guided her toward a chair near the fire. “Sit. Rest if ye can.”
She did as she was told, as her father bid her to do. The study filled slowly, and one by one, the councilman lined in, men of rank and age, wrapped in heavy plaids and wearing grim expressions. They took their places by the hearth or against the wall, muttering to one another in low, uncertain tones.
Davina sat where Baird had left her, with hands clasped in her lap. Her throat still burned where the knife had grazed her. Her thoughts were heavy and slow, caught between disbelief and dread.
When the door finally opened again, Ramsay Fletcher entered. His bearing was as proud as ever, though the lines around his mouth had deepened. His eyes flicked briefly to Davina, then to Baird.
“We’re all here?” he demanded, as if it was his study that they all gathered in.
Baird gave a single nod. “All that matter.”
“Good.” Ramsay stepped into the center of the room. “Then let us speak plain. A tragedy has struck, aye, but the agreement between our families remains. The marriage must go through.”
A murmur spread through the Council. One man, old and gray-bearded, frowned. “Fletcher, yer daughter’s groom lies dead. Ye cannae mean tae proceed as though naething’s happened.”
“I mean precisely what I said,” Ramsay replied. “Our clans forged this union for strength, nae sentiment. If it falls apart now, we invite ruin and give our enemies cause tae celebrate.”
Another councilman shook his head. “The people will see it as heartless. There must be a period of mourning—”
“We dinnae yet understand the man’s death,” Ramsay cut in sharply. “Aye, we shall honor him, but alliances dinnae pause fer grief.”
A stout man near the back spoke next. “The lady has suffered much. Surely, ye’d nae—”
Ramsay’s hand cut through the air. “Me daughter understands her duty.”
All eyes turned to Davina. She felt their stares like a weight pressing against her chest. Her lips parted, but no sound came. She looked to her father, then to Baird, who was silent, still watching the fire.
The gray-bearded councilman sighed. “Even if the girl consents, who would she wed? The ceremony cannae continue with the groom in his grave.”
Ramsay stepped forward, as his voice cut through the murmurs. “There is another Kincaid son,” he said. “The bloodline need not end here.”
A ripple of protest swept through the council chamber.
“Absurd!” one man barked.
“’Tis no small matter tae replace a groom,” another added.
The uproar broke off when Baird rose to his feet. “Aye,” he said in a voice that carried through the hall like thunder. “There is another Kincaid. And that means she will marry me.”
A ripple of shock ran through the gathered men. One councilman stepped forward, and there was disbelief etched across his face. “Me laird, that cannae be wise. The lady was promised tae yer braither, nae tae ye. The matter should end with his death.”
Another spoke more sharply. “She is nae even a laird’s daughter, me laird. The match was already a stretch fer the second-born. Fer ye, the laird himself tae take her, it would upset the order of things.”
Baird’s gaze swept the room, resting on every single man for a moment. “The order of things,” he repeated in a loud challenge. “And what order is that? Tae break a pact made in good faith? Tae bring shame upon me clan?”
Davina’s father seized the moment. “Me daughter has done naething tae deserve disgrace,” he said firmly. “If the Kincaids withdraw now, every clan in the Highlands will take it as an insult: tae us, and tae the memory of the braither ye’ve lost.”
Murmurs filled the chamber. One man shook his head. “But the people will talk. They will say the laird married his braither’s bride before the grave was cold.”
Baird’s jaw tightened. “Let them talk.” He looked toward Davina then, and she felt herself blush under the weight of his gaze. “The honorable path is clear. The Fletchers stood beside us in loyalty and blood. If we falter now, their trust dies with me braither.”
He turned back to the Council. “There will be nay disgrace. The ceremony will go forward. Lady Davina Fletcher will be me wife, and by that vow, the bond between our clans will stand unbroken. Gather in the Grand Hall, all of ye. The witnesses must see the vows kept, or rumor will eat us alive by morning.”
The councilmen exchanged uneasy glances, some bowing their heads, and others whispering in protest. But none dared to defy him.
“As ye command, me laird.”
The room stirred. Chairs scraped and whispers rose as one by one, the men began to leave.
“Lady Davina stays,” Baird suddenly said as soon as he noticed Davina stand up.
Her father turned sharply. “Fer what purpose?”
Baird met his gaze respectfully. “Tae hear her own mind before I lead her tae the altar.”
The words seemed to give even her father pause, as her own heart was beating wildly at the thought of remaining alone with this man who had just saved her life, the same man who was about to become her husband.
Her father’s eyes narrowed. “She has already given her word—”
“She gave it tae me braither,” Baird reminded him. “I’ll nae bind her twice without at least hearing her voice.”
For a moment, Davina’s father and her future husband stood at odds. Then, her father exhaled through his nose, a man conceding ground he disliked.
“Very well. A moment, and nae more.” He cast Davina a look which seemed to be part warning and part worry, before turning to follow the others out.
The heavy door closed behind him, leaving Davina and Baird alone in the dim study. For the first time that evening, Davina truly looked at him. The firelight carved the sharp lines of his face and she could see it all: the strong jaw, the dark sweep of his hair, the storm-gray eyes that caught the light and seemed to hold it.
He was nothing like Malcolm. There was no charm in him, no practiced gentleness, only quiet strength and a shadow of the grief he was feeling that made him all the more striking.
Her heart gave an unfamiliar flutter. It startled her as much as the thought that followed: that man would be her husband.
“Ye mean tae go through with this?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Baird turned toward her fully then. “I dae.”
She swallowed, her fingers tightening in her lap. “Even after what’s happened? Even after yer braither—”
“Aye.” His jaw flexed, and a flicker of pain crossed his face before vanishing. “Because what’s happened changes naething about duty. If anythin’, it makes it heavier.”
Davina studied him, searching for something beyond the hard calm of his words. She wanted to find anything human enough to match the turmoil in her chest. But there was only steadiness, carved deep into him like the stone of the castle itself.
“And what of choice?” she asked softly. “Dae we have any left?”
Baird’s eyes lingered on hers for a long moment, unreadable but not unkind. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost gentle. “Perhaps nae, but we still have honor. And that, Lady Davina, is the only thing either of us can keep.”
Her breath caught, not from fear this time, but from the quiet conviction in his voice. Beneath all his restraint, she sensed something fierce, something that could steady her even as the world crumbled.
He nodded toward the door. “Come. It’s time.”
Baird offered his hand, and Davina hesitated only a heartbeat before placing hers in his. His palm was warm and steady, calloused from battle, and the strength of his grip anchored her to a world that no longer felt real.
The corridor beyond the study glowed with torchlight. Servants and guards stepped aside as they passed, bowing in silence. Somewhere ahead, the faint hum of voices drifted from the great hall. It all felt distant, unreal, as though she were walking through someone else’s dream.
When they reached the tall doors of the great hall, two guards pulled them open, and the sight beyond stole her breath.
The hall, only hours ago a scene of joy and tragedy, now stood reborn under the heavy silence of necessity. Candles burned anew, their golden light trembling in reverence across polished stone. The guests had returned, pale and uneasy, filling the pews once more. No one spoke. Their gazes followed her as she entered, while whispers died on their tongues.
Her father and mother stood near the front. He gave her a short nod, nothing more.
Beside him, the minister waited, his prayer book trembling slightly in his hands. “Me laird, me lady,” he began softly. “If it is yer will…”
Baird’s hand tightened gently around hers. “It is.”
Davina’s pulse thundered in her ears as they stepped forward. The same path she had walked just a few hours before stretched before her. The people were the same, the candles were the same and so were the flowers, yet everything had changed. The space felt haunted by echoes of laughter that would never return.
Each step felt heavier than the last. Her gown whispered against the stone, while her heart was singling a frantic rhythm beneath the lace. And still, Baird’s hand did not waver.
They reached the altar. The minister began to speak. “We gather again, though sorrow shadows this union. Yet vows spoken bind nay less truly in hardship…”
Davina scarcely heard him. She looked up at Baird, at the man who had been a stranger only hours ago.
When the minister asked if he took her hand, Baird answered without hesitation. “I dae.”
The sound of it sent a shiver through her. It was not passion that stirred her then, but the strange certainty that her life would change forever.
As she repeated the priest’s words, symbolizing their union, the hall seemed to exhale. It was a whisper of fate sealing itself in stone.
Baird turned to her, with his hand still wrapped around hers. She knew the ceremony ended with a kiss, but she realized she would be kissing the wrong man.
That was when he leaned in, and she felt his lips brushing against hers with a quiet finality that felt less like a kiss and more like a vow. The solemn taste of it lingered even when she pulled away, symbolizing a bond neither of them had chosen, yet which both would have to bear.
Castle Keppoch, Scottish Highlands, Scotland, December 1689
“I’m leavin’, and I’m askin’ fer yer blessin’ as laird, braither.”
The words fell into the great hall like stones into still water, rippling outward through the sudden silence. Alyson’s fingers found the edge of her sleeve, worrying the fabric between thumb and forefinger while four pairs of eyes turned toward her.
Her eldest brother, Laird Tòrr MacDonald, set down the missive he’d been reading. Across from him, Daemon’s hand stilled on his wine cup. Catherine, who was visiting after the return of her sister from her captivity, paused mid-step near the hearth, and Sofia, who’d been mending a torn hem by the window, looked up with startled blue-gray eyes.
“Leavin’?” Tòrr’s voice was carefully neutral, but Alyson caught the tightness around his mouth. “Where would ye go then, sister?”
She forced herself to meet his gaze, though her heart hammered against her ribs. Say it. Tell them. They need tae understand.
“I need tae go tae Iona Abbey.” Her voice came out steadier than she’d expected. “I intend tae take vows.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the fire seemed to quiet, as if the castle itself held its breath.
“Nay.” Daemon’s word cracked like a whip. He surged to his feet, the intensity in his hazel eyes burning hot enough to scorch. “Absolutely nay.”
“Daemon—”
“We didnae pull ye from Campbell’s dungeon so ye could lock yerself away in another prison, sister!”
Alyson flinched at the vehemence in his tone, her fingers tightening on her sleeve.
Breathe. Just breathe.
“’Tis a sanctuary, Daemon.”
“’Tis runnin’.” Catherine moved closer, her auburn hair catching the firelight. Her voice was gentler than her brother’s, but no less firm. “And MacDonalds dinnae run from anythin’, Alyson. That’s nae who ye are.”
Campbell took that brave girl and left somethin’ else in her place.
“Please,” she said softly, looking at each of them in turn. “Just… hear me out, please. Dinnae ye owe me that much, at least?”
Tòrr gestured to the empty chair beside him. “Sit. Explain.”
She remained standing, needing the distance, needing to feel like she had some control in this moment. Her fingers continued their restless dance along her sleeve’s edge.
“I cannae stay here.” The words came slowly, each one pulled from somewhere deep and painful. “I wake screamin’ most nights. I cannae be in a room with more than two people without feelin’ like the walls are closin’ in. I flinch when men get too close, even men I’ve kent me whole life, me family.” Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “I’m… broken, Tòrr.”
“Ye’re nae broken,” Sofia said fiercely, abandoning her mending to cross the room. She stopped just out of reach, respecting the distance Alyson needed. “Ye’re healin’. That takes time.”
“Four months, Sofia. ‘Tis been four months, and I’m still…” She trailed off, that familiar fog closing in when memories threatened to surface. Her fingers found her sleeve again, grounding herself in the texture. “I need peace. Need silence. Need walls thick enough tae ensure that the world cannae reach me.”
“And ye think stone walls and prayers will give ye that?” Daemon’s voice was rough with something that might have been grief. “Alyson, hidin’ from the world isnae livin’.”
“I’m nae livin’ now!” The words burst out of her, sharp and raw. “I’m just… survivin’.” She pressed her palm against her chest, feeling her heart race beneath her fingers. “And I’m so tired of bein’ afraid, Daemon. Tired of seein’ pity in all of yer eyes. Tired of this… this soul crushin’ fear that Campbell left in me that I cannae undae or outrun or escape.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy with truths none of them wanted to acknowledge.
Finally, Tòrr spoke. “There’s more tae this than healin’, isnae there?”
She met his green eyes—so like her own—and saw the understanding there. He’d always been able to read her, even when she tried to hide.
“Aye. I refuse tae live me life in fear of Cody Grant, braither.”
Daemon’s fist slammed onto the table, making everyone jump. “That bastard!”
“He’s sent three more letters in the past fortnight alone,” Alyson said quietly. “Each more… persistent than the last.”
“Persistent?” Catherine’s voice dripped with contempt. “The man’s obsessed. He wants ye as some twisted… recompense fer losin’ Isabeau tae Micheal.”
“Let him come.” Daemon’s hand dropped to his dirk. “I’ll gut him where he stands.”
“And start a clan war?” Tòrr’s tone sharpened. “Grant may be a fool, but he has allies. The Pact of Argyll isnae dead just because Angus Campbell is.”
“Herman Forbes still draws breath,” Daemon added grimly. “And that snake has been pullin’ Cody’s strings since the lad was old enough tae hold a mirror!”
Alyson listened to them discuss her future, her safety, her life as if she weren’t standing right there. A familiar numbness crept over her, the same detachment that had kept her sane in Campbell’s dungeon.
“If I take these vows,” she said in a gap in their argument, “Grant has nay claim tae me. Ever. Nor any other. The Church protects its own.”
“The Church didnae protect ye from Campbell,” Micheal shot back.
“Because I wasnae under their protection then.” She lifted her chin, feeling something almost like strength flow through her. “But once I take vows, even Grant wouldnae dare such blasphemy.”
Tòrr studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, and she knew she’d won—or lost, depending on how one looked at it.
“If this is truly what ye want,” he said slowly, “I’ll nae stand in yer way.”
“Tòrr—” Daemon started.
“She’s a grown woman, braither. And she’s survived things that would have broken most men.” He looked at Alyson with something that might have been respect beneath the sorrow. “If she needs this tae feel safe again, who are we tae deny her?”
“Ach!” Catherine made a sound of distress. “But tae lose her tae—”
“Ye’re nae losin’ me.” Alyson’s throat tightened. “I’ll still be yer sister. I’ll just be… elsewhere. Which was bound tae happen sooner or later anyway, if I married.”
Alive, nae livin’. But safe…
“Iona Abbey is a week’s ride from here,” Daemon said, his tactical mind already working through logistics. “Through MacLeod lands first, then skirtin’ the edge of Glen Moore. We’ll need tae arrange—”
“Glen Moore,” Tòrr interrupted, straightening. “That’s in Keane MacLean’s territory, is it nae?”
“Aye. The abbey falls under his protection.”
A thoughtful silence fell as they all considered this.
“He’s pretty much kept himself out of clan politics,” Tòrr mused. “Never joined the Pact, but never openly opposed it either. A hard man, by all accounts, but fair.”
“We should write tae him,” Catherine suggested. “Ask fer safe passage through his lands and his protection fer the journey. If Grant’s men are watchin’ the roads—and we should assume they are—we’ll need assurance that MacLean’s warriors willnae see an armed MacDonald escort as a threat.”
Tòrr nodded slowly. “Aye. That’s wise.” He looked at Alyson. “When dae ye want tae leave?”
The question hung in the air, final and irrevocable.
“As soon as Laird MacLean grants passage.” Her voice didn’t waver. “The sooner I reach the abbey, the sooner…”
The sooner I can stop runnin’. Stop feelin’. Stop rememberin’.
“Then I’ll write the letter taenight.” Tòrr stood, moving toward his desk where parchment and ink waited. “I’ll explain the situation—carefully—and request his leave fer ye and an armed escort tae pass through.”
“Dinnae mention Grant specifically,” Daemon advised. “Just say she’s makin’ a pilgrimage.”
“Agreed. We dinnae need MacLean knowin’ we might be bringin’ trouble tae his doorstep.”
Alyson watched her eldest brother settle at the table, dipping his quill in ink with the same careful precision he brought to everything. The scratch of pen on parchment filled the hall, each stroke bringing her closer to a future she both dreaded and desperately needed.
This is the right choice.
Daemon moved to stand beside her, keeping that careful distance he’d maintained since pulling her from Campbell’s dungeon. “Ye ken I’d dae anythin’ fer ye, aye? Kill anyone, burn down any castle, start any war. Ye just have tae say the word.”
She looked up at him—the fierce, scarred warrior who’d risked everything to save her with her two other brothers. “I ken. But this is somethin’ I need tae dae fer meself, Daemon.”
“Ye’re the bravest person I ken.” he said roughly. “And I’m sorry we failed ye. Sorry Campbell ever got his filthy hands on ye.”
“Ye didnae fail me, braither.” She reached out, stopping just shy of touching his hand. Even that small gesture took courage she wasn’t sure she possessed. “Ye came fer me. Ye saved me. Ye didnae abandon me. And that means everythin’.”
“Will ye take anyone with ye?” Catherine asked. “Sofia or Liliane perhaps? Someone tae help ye settle?”
Alyson shook her head. “Nay. I need tae dae this alone.”
The thought should have terrified her. Instead, it felt almost like relief.
“Done.” Tòrr lifted the parchment, shaking it gently to dry the ink. “I’ll send it with our fastest rider at first light. With any luck, we’ll have MacLean’s response within a fortnight.”
“And if he refuses?” Sofia asked quietly.
“Then we find another way.” Tòrr’s expression hardened. “But I doubt he will. MacLean may be many things, but he’s a man of honor. He’ll nae deny a woman seekin’ sanctuary.”
Alyson moved to the window, pressing her palm against the cold glass. Beyond the castle walls, the Highlands stretched in all directions—wild and beautiful and vast. Somewhere out there, in those distant mountains and glens, was the abbey that would become her home. Her refuge. Her salvation.
Just a wee bit longer.
Behind her, her siblings spoke in low tones, planning logistics and guard rotations and supply lists. Their voices blurred together, becoming meaningless noise as she stared out at the darkening sky.
She didn’t see Tòrr approach until he stood beside her, his reflection ghostly in the glass.
“Are ye certain?” he asked softly. “Because ye ken once ye take those vows, there’s nay turnin’ back.”
“I’m certain.”
“Alyson.” He waited until she looked at him. “Dinnae ever believe that Campbell broke ye. He hurt ye, aye. Scared ye. But ye’re still in there—the girl who used tae sneak honey cakes from the kitchen and race Daemon across the moors. The lass who stood up tae Edwin MacLeod when he tried tae force Catherine’s hand. Ye’re still strong. Still brave.”
“I dinnae feel brave.”
“Aye. I ken.” He squeezed her shoulder, a brief touch that made her tense despite knowing he’d never hurt her. “But if ye ever change yer mind, ever decide ye want tae come home… we’ll be here fer ye. Always.”
The words wrapped around her like a blanket, warm and suffocating at once.
The next morning, alone in her chamber, Alyson stood by her window and watched the rider leave at dawn’s first light. He carried Tòrr’s letter in his saddlebag—formal words requesting passage through MacLean lands for a woman seeking spiritual refuge.
Such simple words to seal a fate.
In a fortnight, perhaps less, the response would come. Laird Keane MacLean would either grant her passage or deny it. Either way, her course was set.
Iona Abbey. Stone walls. Silence. Peace.
The words had become a prayer, repeated endlessly through sleepless nights and anxiety-filled days.
She was going to leave the castle. Leave her family. Leave everything familiar and ride toward a future written in vows and prayers.
She just had to survive until then.
And pray that Cody Grant’s obsession didn’t find her before she reached sanctuary.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
Don’t miss your link to the whole book at the end of the preview.
Chapter One
Glen Moore, Scottish Highlands, Scotland, January 1690
“Easy, lass,” Lady Alyson MacDonald murmured. “There’s naethin’ out there.”
Her mare’s ears flicked softly, picking up something on the wind as they travelled toward Iona Abbey—to stone walls and iron gates and a life where the world couldn’t touch her. Sanctuary. Safety.
The forest pressed close on either side of the narrow road, bare branches reaching overhead like skeletal fingers. Frost clung to everything, turning the world into something crystalline and bitter. Beautiful, if one didn’t look too closely. Beautiful, if one ignored how easily frozen things could shatter.
Like me.
“Birds are restless,” Malcolm, one of her guards, said, his fingers tightening around his sword hilt.
“Aye,” Jamie agreed, his eyes scanning the tree line. “Even the carrion birds ken somethin’s comin’. Me grandfaither always used tae say that when the crows start gatherin’, ‘tis never tae sing ye a lullaby. Means they’re waitin’ fer their feast.”
“That’s the spirit, lad. Keep that optimism burnin’ bright.”
The other men chuckled under their breath at the jest, but Fergus fixed his gaze on Alyson.
Alyson’s fingers found the edge of her cloak, worrying the heavy wool between her thumb and forefinger. The familiar texture grounded her, kept her from drowning in memories that still had teeth.
Five months. It has been five months since Micheal pulled me from that cell. Five months later, and I still wake screamin’, still cannae bear tae have a man stand too close.
Even her brothers—especially her brothers, for they now treated her like something fragile. Their careful distance hurt worse than any wound Campbell had inflicted upon her.
“The abbey will nay doubt offer ye peace, me lady,” Fergus said quietly. “But ye ken what it means, aye? Once ye take those vows—”
“I ken what I’m daein’.” The words came out sharper than intended, and she gentled her tone, her fingers still working the cloak’s edge. “Fergive me, Fergus. I didnae mean tae snap. ‘Tis just… I’m nay longer the person who existed before Campbell. She’s gone. The Abbey will provide safety.”
Her words hung between them because they both knew the truth. Safety came at a price, and she was about to pay for it with the rest of her life.
“Malcom,” Fergus called to one of the younger guards. “How much further tae the crossin’?”
“Another hour, maybe less if we keep this pace.”
They were already well into MacLean territory, and now had to reach the crossing. From there, it was only half a day’s ride to Iona Abbey. Men like Cody Grant couldn’t reach her there with their obsession and their demands.
I’ll be safe behind those walls. Finally, finally safe.
Alyson’s mare tossed her head, nostrils flaring at something on the wind. She stroked the animal’s neck, feeling the nervous energy thrumming through warm muscle and hide. The animal’s coat was damp with sweat despite the cold—another creature who sensed danger before it showed itself.
Behind her, Malcolm’s horse sidled nervously, hooves striking the frozen earth with sharp, rhythmic cracks. Then Iain’s mount joined the restless dance, tossing its head hard enough to make the bit jangle.
Alyson’s gaze swept the tree line. Nothing was moving in the forest, no birds called—even the wind had gone silent, as if the world itself held its breath.
A branch snapped somewhere to the left—sharp as a bone breaking.
Fergus’s head whipped toward the sound, his hand dropping to his sword hilt. Across from him, Dougal did the same, his face going hard as stone.
Then, carried on the frozen air like a whisper, came the distant thunder of hoofbeats.
Fergus’s voice dropped. “I want ye tae stay calm now, me lady.” His one hand dropped to his sword hilt, while the other tightened on the reins with white-knuckled intensity, his body rigid. “But be ready, there’s someone followin’ us.”
Every muscle in Alyson’s body went rigid. Her heart hammered against her ribs hard enough to bruise.
Nay. Nae now. We’re so close…
“Could be naethin’.” Dougal’s hand waited patiently on his sword hilt, belying his words. “What d’ye reckon, Fergus?”
Fergus’s jaw tightened. “Malcolm, Iain—fall back. Eyes on the tree line. The rest of ye, close ranks.”
The warriors moved with silent efficiently, tightening their formation around her. “Blast it! ‘Tis colder than a witch’s—”, Jamie muttered, earning him a sharp look from Fergus that would have been comical in any other circumstance.
Alyson forced herself to breathe through her nose, to loosen her death grip on the cloak before she tore the fabric.
‘Tis probably naethin’… just travelers. Just—
But Fergus wouldn’t have given orders if it was nothing.
“How long have they been followin’ us?” she hated the tremor in her voice, hated the weakness it revealed.
“Hard tae say,” Dougal kept his gaze fixed on something behind them, something she couldn’t see. His jaw worked as he chewed the inside of his cheek—a nervous habit she’d noticed in him before every raid back at Keppoch. “Could’ve picked up our trail at first light. Maybe before even.”
“How many?”
“Cannae tell yet. They’re smart—keepin’ their distance, stayin’ just out of sight.”
Alyson’s mare began to sidestep, catching her rider’s fear like a contagion. She ran her hand along the animal’s neck in long, soothing strokes, even as panic clawed at her throat.
Breathe. Ye survived Campbell. Ye can survive this.
“Me lady,” Iain’s face had gone pale, making his freckles stand out like bloodstains on snow. “Can ye ride faster?”
Six pairs of eyes turned to her, waiting. These men—barely more than boys, some of them—would die for her. She knew their names, had gotten to know them well on this journey, though she wished she hadn’t. Names made losses real. Names turned warriors into fathers and husbands and sons. Names carved themselves into one’s memory like epitaphs waiting to be spoken.
The sight of them should have comforted her, but instead, it only reminded her of how many men had already died because of her and the knowledge sat like stones in her belly.
“Aye,” she said, straightening her spine. “I can ride as fast as needed.”
“Then we ride.” Fergus spurred his mount forward. “Now!”
They kicked their horses into a gallop. The sudden acceleration made Alyson’s stomach lurch, but her mare responded beautifully—powerful legs eating up the frozen ground, hooves thundering against packed earth. The rhythmic pounding became their battle drum, declaring war against whoever dared pursue them. Wind whipped at Alyson’s face, stinging her eyes, pulling strands of dark hair loose from beneath her hood.
Behind them, other hoofbeats answered. Growing louder. Growing closer.
“How many?” Fergus shouted over the pounding rhythm.
“At least a dozen!” Dougal’s voice carried back. “Maybe more!”
A dozen against six?
The arithmetic was simple, brutal. Even if her guards were the finest warriors in the Highlands—and they were good—those numbers spelled trouble.
The thunder of hoofbeats behind them had become a living thing—hungry, relentlessly closing the distance with every heartbeat. Alyson’s mare stumbled slightly on the frozen ground, then recovered, though it cost her fractions of a second—which could mean the difference between life and death.
Her ears pricked to the creak of leather as someone drew back a bowstring.
Fergus’s face had gone white, his knuckles bloodless on his reins. When his eyes met hers, she saw her own fear reflected there.
“Ride!!” His roar split the air. “RIDE!”
“The trees!” Malcolm pointed toward denser forest ahead. “If we can reach cover—”
An arrow whistled past Alyson’s head.
She felt the breathless whisper of its passage, felt death brushing against her skin like a lover’s caress. The arrow embedded itself in a tree trunk, shaft still quivering. The fletching was dyed red—Grant colors. A declaration of intent.
Then, the air filled with whispers—dozens of them as arrows flew towards them.
“Ride like the devil himself is at yer heels!” Fergus roared.
Alyson leaned low over her mare’s neck, making herself small, and gave the animal her lead. The mare surged forward with a burst of speed that blurred the world to streaks of grey and white and brown.
An arrow struck the ground inches from her mare’s hooves. The animal screamed—high and terrified—and veered sharply. Alyson clung to the saddle, her heart lodged somewhere in her throat, every muscle burning with effort.
Please let us reach the crossin’, please—
Wood splintered nearby—another arrow finding a tree. They were getting too close. Her mare’s sides heaved beneath her, muscles flexing with desperation.
Fergus wheeled his horse around. For one terrible moment, his eyes met hers—full of apology, full of grief for what he had to do.
“Dougal, Iain, Liam—get Lady Alyson intae the forest! The rest, with me!”
“Fergus, nay!” But her cry was lost in the chaos as the group fractured. Three warriors surrounded her, urging their mounts toward the tree line while Fergus and the others wheeled back to face their pursuers.
They’re goin’ tae die because of me.
They rode through undergrowth, the mare heaving beneath her. Dougal led them, his broader mount clearing a path through bracken. Iain brought up the rear, constantly looking back. Liam stayed close to her left, his sword already drawn.
The thunder of pursuing hoofbeats grew louder again. Closer. Accompanied by shouts in rough Highland voices that made her skin crawl with fear.
“There!” Liam pointed toward a break in the trees. “If we can reach the ridge we—”
His words ended in a strangled gasp. An arrow sprouted from his shoulder like some obscene flower. He pitched forward, somehow staying mounted even as blood began to soak through his shirt.
“Keep goin’!” Liam’s face had gone grey, but his voice remained steady. “Dinnae stop fer—”
Warriors burst through the trees like demons conjured from nightmare. They came from both sides at once, horses crashing through undergrowth with terrifying speed. Alyson caught flashes of tartan bearing Grant colors, of grim faces and drawn weapons, before chaos descended.
They’ve come fer me!
She kicked her mare forward, desperate to break through. A massive hand shot out and seized her reins. Her mare reared, hooves flailing at empty air, and this time, Alyson couldn’t hold on.
The world tilted and she felt herself falling, felt that sickening moment of weightlessness, then hit frozen earth with enough force to drive the air from her lungs. Sharp pain exploded through her shoulder, her hip, radiating outward in waves that made her vision blur.
Get up. Get. Up. GET UP!
But her body wouldn’t obey. She lay there gasping—vision swimming, ears ringing with more than just the impact.
“Got her!” someone bellowed triumphantly.
Through the haze of pain, Alyson saw boots approaching—heavy, deliberate. A shadow fell across her, blocking out what little light filtered through the canopy.
Memories slashed at her. Horrible ones she’d fought so hard to escape.
Rough hands grabbed her arms, hauling her upright. Alyson thrashed weakly, but whoever held her was far stronger. The world slowly stopped spinning, but the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth—she must’ve bitten her tongue in the fall.
Dougal lay motionless on the ground, his blood staining the ice-covered earth in a growing pool of crimson. His eyes stared at nothing, already glazed over. Iain knelt nearby, disarmed, with a sword at his throat. Liam had finally fallen from his horse—but whether he was unconscious or dead, she couldn’t tell.
They’re dead because I needed protection. Because I couldnae just stay put.
Her fingers found the edge of her torn cloak, rubbing the fabric frantically.
“Well now,” the man holding her—a scarred brute with cold eyes—grinned down at her. “His lairdship’s goin’ tae be very pleased.”
Alyson tried to speak, but terror had stolen her voice. All she could manage was a weak shake of her head, her fingers still working the cloak’s edge like a talisman against evil.
“Och, dinnae fash yerself, lassie.” His breath was hot and rank against her face. “We willnae hurt ye and spoil yer weddin’ night.”
Weddin’?
The word cut through her paralysis like a blade through silk.
“Nay,” she managed. “I’ll never—”
“Ye’ll dae as yer told.” He yanked her closer, making her stumble. “Ye’ll pay the debt the MacDonald clan owes Laird Grant!”
He shoved her, and turned around as another warrior approached—older, grey streaking his beard. “Bind her. We need tae move before—”
A rock struck him square in the temple with a wet, meaty sound.
The grey-bearded man staggered, blood trickling down his face. It ran into his eye, and he pawed at it with one hand, cursing in Gaelic. For one single heartbeat, everyone froze in shock.
I cannae believe I actually hit him!
“Ye wee bitch!” the scarred man lunged toward her. “Ye’ll regret—”
She drove her foot up between his legs with every ounce of strength she could muster. His agonized howl split the air, and Alyson ran.
She didn’t know where she was running, didn’t care. She simply picked a direction and ran with single-minded desperation, branches whipping at her face, roots threatening to trip her with every step.
Her cloak caught on a thorn bush, but she tore it free and kept going. Her lungs were on fire, her legs screaming in protest, but she kept pushing forward.
Behind her, they shouted, crashing through the undergrowth in pursuit.
Just a wee bit further. Just—
A deer jumped in front of her, and Alyson startled and veered sharply left, her ankle twisting in a hole. She went down hard, palms scraping against sharp stones that bit deep.
Ye have tae get up. If they catch ye—
Heavy footsteps approached from behind. Alyson rolled onto her back, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she stared up at the warrior looming over her.
She opened her mouth—to scream, to fight, to do something…
But darkness was already creeping in at the edges of her vision, her body finally surrendering to exhaustion and terror and the weight of too many nightmares made flesh.
The last thing she saw before the world went black was the man’s face –all predatory malice wrapped up in harsh lines.
And then, nothing.
Chapter Two
“We need tae move before MacLean’s men find us.”
The rough gravelly voice dragged Alyson back to consciousness, like a fishhook through flesh. Pain throbbed behind her eyes, and when she tried to move, rough hemp bit into her wrists as someone yanked her arms behind her back.
Nay… this cannae be happenin’ again!
“Should we gag her?” Another voice said, younger.
“Aye. But dinnae hurt her… much,” he chuckled. “His lairdship wants her intact.”
Alyson forced her eyes open despite the persistent pounding in her skull. Grant warriors surrounded her, their faces grim with purpose. She sat propped against a tree trunk, head still spinning. She peered through the bare branches overhead, noticing that the sun had climbed higher—how long had she been unconscious?
Her ribs ached where she’d hit the ground. Her palms stung from scraping against stones. But worse than any physical pain was the suffocating weight of anxiety pressing down on her chest, stealing her breath.
The smell hit her next—leather and sweat and something metallic that might have been blood. Old blood. These men had killed recently, and the evidence of it clung to them like a shroud that made her stomach churn.
The surrounding forest was eerily quiet now—no birdsong, no rustling leaves… just the harsh breathing of the men and the thundering of her own pulse in her ears. Frost clung to the shadows where sunlight couldn’t reach, making everything look sharp edged and dangerous.
Count, Alyson.
One… two… three…
But the numbers scattered like birds before a storm, refusing to stay in her fractured thoughts.
“Glad ye could join us, lass.” The scarred man crouched before her, his smile making bile rise in her throat. His breath reeked of ale and rot, and up close, she could see the puckered tissue that ran from his temple to his jaw—some old battle wound that had healed poorly. “Gave us quite a chase, ye did. But it’s over now.” He cackled.
“Over?” she repeated hoarsely. Her tongue felt thick, her throat raw from screaming. She met his gaze and held it even as her fingers clutched frantically at her skirts. “Ye think draggin’ me before Grant solves anythin’?”
“Aye. Solves everythin’.” He said, reaching toward her face.
Alyson jerked back hard enough to crack her skull against the tree trunk. Stars burst across her vision, but she’d rather split her head open than let him touch her.
The bark bit into her scalp through her loose hair—when had she lost her braid? The memory flickered—the chase, branches tearing at her, her hair coming undone as they’d ran wildly through the forest.
The scarred man laughed. “Och… his lairdship’s goin’ tae enjoy ye!”
Never.
But her voice had fled. The rope bit into her wrists painfully—too tight, too familiar—her breath faster, shallower, darkness creeping in at the edges of her vision again.
Nay. Breathe! Ye survived Campbell, ye can survive this.
She pressed her fingers harder into her skirt, concentrating on the texture—rough wool. Real.
But her heartbeat wouldn’t slow. Each breath came shorter than the last, and she could feel panic clawing up her throat like something living and desperate.
“Steady now,” one of the younger warriors muttered, though whether to himself, or her, Alyson couldn’t tell. His hand trembled slightly on his sword hilt. He couldn’t have been a day over twenty, with a sparse beard that looked more hopeful than genuine. His eyes kept darting to the trees nervously.
Good. At least I’m nae the only one.
The scarred man stood, brushing frost from his knees. “Get her on her feet. We’ve wasted enough time chasin’ this wee bird through the woods.”
Rough hands hauled her upright. Her legs nearly buckled, muscles screaming in protest. The world tilted dangerously, and for one terrible moment, she thought she might throw up right there. “Where…” she managed, her voice strained, “where are me guards?”
The silence that followed said enough.
They’re probably all dead because of me.
“Dinnae ye fash yerself about them,” the scarred man said. “Only thing ye need tae concern yerself with is pleasin’ his lairdship.”
Then, a hand clamped around her throat, fingers pressing against her windpipe—not quite choking, not yet, just a promise of what could happen if she tried to scream. The touch caused every muscle in her body to lock tightly, going rigid as her vision narrowed to a pinpoint, blurring at the edges.
“Ye be quiet as a wee church mouse now, ye hear?” He snarled in a whisper, his breath hot and sour against her face. “Such a shame that such a bonnie lass almost ended up at a nunnery—”
An arrow took him through the eye.
He jerked back with a wet, choking sound, his hand falling away from her throat as he toppled sideways into the frozen leaves.
And for one impossible moment, everything went silent, the entire world holding its breath. Alyson stared at the fletching—red feathers, still quivering slightly as blood pooled beneath the man’s body, steaming against the frozen ground.
“Bàs no Beatha!” A war cry tore through the forest.
Death or life.
It came from everywhere at once—primal, and fierce enough to halt the blood in Alyson’s veins. The Grant warriors went absolutely rigid, heads snapping toward the sound. She could see it in their eyes—the knowledge that they were already dead.
Then, chaos erupted.
Warriors poured from the trees like a sudden storm—a dozen at least, weapons drawn, faces carved from ancient Highland stone and fury. But the man leading the group was the one who made her forget how to breathe.
He stood taller than any man she’d ever seen, built like the standing stones of the old places—broad and immovable and pure masculine energy. Dark hair whipped around a face all harsh angles and unforgiving lines. The sword in his hand looked as natural on him as if it was an extension of his arm.
Even through terror, even with death skulking the ground around them, Alyson couldn’t help but notice things she had absolutely no business noticing, like the way his shoulders filled his leather jerkin with an ease that spoke of natural strength rather than practiced posturing. Or the controlled precision in every single movement—the grace of a predator who’d never once questioned his place at the apex.
And he was looking at her like she was the most interesting thing in that blood-soaked clearing.
The man’s about tae kill everyone and here I am noticin’ how bonnie he is? I’ve lost me mind entirely!
His blade sang through the air. The grey-bearded man released Alyson and fumbled for his weapon, but death had already found him. Steel flashed once—brutal and efficient—and he crumpled without a sound.
Hot blood sprayed across Alyson’s face and neck.
She stumbled backward, bound hands making her clumsy, barely keeping her footing. Around her, the clearing had become a slaughterhouse. The newcomers fought with surgical precision—not a single wasted movement, no hesitation. Steel sparked against steel. Men shouted. The coppery stench of blood thickened the winter air until Alyson could taste it on her tongue.
What followed was less battle than execution.
The Grant warriors tried to form a defensive line, but it was like trying to hold back an avalanche with one’s bare hands. The newcomers cut through them with brutal efficiently. Once of the younger Grant soldiers tried to run, and an arrow took him in the back. He went down screaming, clawing at the shaft protruding from his chest.
The scarred man was skilled, but the dark-haired giant dismantled him with terrifying ease. Three parries, two feints, then his blade swept up inside the man’s defense, slicing him open from groin to throat in one fluid motion.
The brute’s eyes went wide. He looked down at the ruin of his body, back up at the warrior’s impassive face, and collapsed. The sound he made—wet and gurgling and utterly wrong—would haunt Alyson’s dreams for weeks to come. Her fingers found the edge of her torn sleeve, pressing into the fabric frantically even as nausea rolled through her.
Dinnae look. Dinnae look at what’s spillin’ ontae the ground.
But she couldn’t look away. Some distant part of her knew she should close her eyes, turn her head, but she remained frozen in place—watching as the dark-haired warrior pulled his blade free and stepped over the body like it was no more significant than a fallen branch.
His movements were economical, almost beautiful. There weren’t any flourishes, no wasted energy. Just pure, controlled violence delivered with certainty. This was a man who’d killed before and would certainly kill again without hesitation.
Should I be terrified, or grateful?
Around them, the last of the fighting sputtered out. Bodies littered the frost-covered ground, steam rising from their wounds in the cold air. The warrior wiped his blade clean on a dead man’s plaid, his expression carved from Highland granite. His gaze swept the clearing with cold assessment. The remaining Grant warriors fell quickly—outnumbered, outmatched, dying on Highland steel before they could mount any defense.
Then, those amber eyes found her. And she realized, she was both.
They reminded her of whisky held up to the firelight—amber with flecks of gold and brown. Even terrified, even covered in another person’s blood with her hands bound and her world crumbling, Alyson couldn’t help but notice the strong lines of his body—pure coiled energy and controlled violence. The scar bisecting his left eyebrow, and how his presence seemed to warp the very air around him, making everything else fade into insignificance.
He’s the most dangerous and most bonnie thing I’ve ever seen.
And he’d just saved her life.
The warrior crossed the clearing toward her. His boots made no sound on the frozen ground—a predator’s silence that sent fresh shivers down her spine. Alyson fought every instinct screaming at her to run, to cower, to make herself small. Instead, she took a steadying breath and lifted her chin, meeting his intense gaze even as her pulse hammered in her throat.
I willnae cower. Nae again. Nae ever again.
He stopped an arm’s length away. Up close, he was even more imposing—all bulk and silent authority that radiated from him like heat from a forge. His eyes travelled over her face, her torn cloak, her bound wrists. Something flickered in his expression—there and gone too fast to name.
“Can ye stand?” his voice matched the rest of him—rough and uncompromising, like gravel grinding under boot heels.
I’m already standin’, ye great ox.
Alyson thought she detected something else beneath the harshness, something that sounded almost like concern, but her legs were trembling so badly she wasn’t certain how much longer that would remain true. She locked her knees, wiling her body to remain upright.
“Lass. Look at me.”
Her chin lifted before she could stop herself, some stubborn part of her refusing to run, even now.
Up close, his face was all harsh planes and sharp lines—the face of a warrior who’d seen too much death and dealt too much of it himself. But there was something else underneath.
Then, their eyes met.
And Alyson MacDonald realized with perfect, terrifying clarity that her life was about to change forever.
“Me laird.” A broad-shouldered warrior approached from the left, his sword still dripping. He had dark hair streaked with silver at the temples and a long scar across his jaw that gave him a roguish appearance despite the blood spattered across his face. “The area’s clear. Nay sign of reinforcements.”
The towering man didn’t take his eyes off Alyson. “Tristan!” his voice cut through the clearing like a blade. “Check the tree line. Make certain we’re alone.”
A younger warrior peeled away from the group—lean and wiry, with black hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing. He moved through the trees with the confidence of a man half wild, disappearing into the forest without a sound.
Around them, the other warriors were already at work. One kicked through the bodies, checking for survivors—though from the efficiency of their attack, Alyson doubted they’d find any. Another gathered fallen weapons with practiced ease, sliding them into a leather pack.
“Kenneth!” Boyd called to a grizzled warrior with a silver beard. “Get the horses. His lairdship will want tae move quickly.”
“On it.” The older man jogged toward the trees, his gait slightly uneven—an old injury, perhaps.
Alyson’s mind struggled to process it all. The systematic way they moved. The easy authority in their laird’s voice. These weren’t raiders or bandits—these were trained warriors, disciplined and deadly.
And their laird was still watching her with those unsettling amber eyes.
“Ye’re bleedin’.” His voice was quieter now, though no less commanding.
She touched her temple and her fingers came away red. She hadn’t even felt it—it must have happened when she’d cracked her head against the tree. “‘Tis naethin’.”
“‘Tis blood, lass.” He reached toward her face, then stopped himself, his hand hovering in the air between them. For a moment, something almost like uncertainty crossed his features. “May I?”
The question caught her off guard. After everything—after being dragged and bound and threatened—this stranger was asking permission to touch her?
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they tilted her face to the side, examining the wound with clinical efficiency. That close, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint white scars that marked his hands. A warrior’s hands, but steady. Careful.
“Shallow,” he pronounced. “It’ll bruise, but ye’ll live.” His thumb brushed her cheekbone—barely a touch, there and gone—before he stepped back.
The warrior called Tristan emerged from the trees, shaking his head. “Clear fer now, but Grant’s men willnae be far. They’ll have heard the fightin’.”
“Then we dinnae linger.” The laird turned back to Alyson, and for the first time, she saw something that might have been concern flicker in those amber depths. “Can ye ride?”
“I…” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again, lifting her chin with as much dignity as she could muster. “Aye. I can ride.”
Isla’s voice was barely a whisper in the darkness, hoarse from crying and calling for help that never came. She huddled in the corner of the tiny cell, her knees pulled to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible.
The cold stone pressed against her back, leeching warmth from her small body. She couldn’t remember what warmth felt like anymore. Couldn’t remember sunshine, or her mother’s arms, or the sound of her father’s laugh. All she knew was darkness and cold and the constant gnawing fear that she would die there, alone and forgotten.
“I want me maither,” she whispered to the shadows. “I want tae go home.”
No one answered. They never did.
She didn’t even know why she was here. One moment she’d been playing in the gardens at Fletcher lands, and the next – rough hands grabbing her, a cloth over her mouth, darkness. When she’d woken, she was in this cell, and men with English accents were telling her she was being held for ransom.
“Yer faither will pay,” they’d said. “And until he daes, ye stay here.”
But no payment had come. No rescue. Just endless days of darkness broken only by the thin gruel they pushed through the slot in the door once a day.
She was eleven years old, and she was going to die there.
The sound of footsteps on stone made her flinch deeper into her corner. They came twice a day or twice a day, depending. Once with food, once to empty the chamber pot. She’d learned not to speak to them, not to beg. They either ignored her or laughed at her tears.
But those footsteps were different. Multiple sets, moving fast, and accompanied by voices. Shouting voices.
Scottish voices. Isla’s head snapped up, her heart suddenly hammering against her ribs. Was she imagining it? Had hunger and darkness finally driven her mad?
Then she heard it clearly:
“Check every cell! We’re nae leavin’ anyone behind!”
Steel rang against steel somewhere above. Men screamed. More footsteps, running now, coming closer.
Isla scrambled to her feet, her legs shaking from disuse. “Here!” Her voice came out as a croak. “I’m here! Please, I’m here!”
The footsteps paused outside her cell. Torchlight suddenly blazed through the small window in the door, painfully bright after so long in darkness. She threw up her hands to shield her eyes.
“Someone’s in here!” a voice called. Young, male, urgent. “Get this door open!”
“Stand back from the door!” another voice commanded.
Isla pressed herself against the far wall, her heart racing so fast she thought it might burst. It was real. It was happening. Someone had come.
The door shuddered under a heavy impact. Once. Twice. On the third strike, wood splintered and the door crashed inward.
Torchlight flooded the cell, and Isla had to squeeze her eyes shut against the brightness. When she could finally squint them open, she saw figures silhouetted in the doorway. Warriors, she realized. Scottish warriors in Cameron colors.
“Sweet Christ,” one of them breathed. “She’s just a bairn.”
“Isla Fletcher?” The voice was closer now, gentle. “Are ye Isla Fletcher?”
She tried to answer but her voice wouldn’t work. She managed a nod.
“We’re here tae take ye home.” The speaker moved into the cell, and as Isla’s eyes adjusted, she could finally see him properly.
He was young, not even twenty, she guessed, with dark hair and the kindest grey eyes she’d ever seen. He wore a sword at his hip and blood spattered his clothes, but his expression as he looked at her was nothing but gentle concern.
“Are ye hurt, lass?” He knelt before her, bringing himself to her level. “Did they harm ye?”
“N-nay.” Her voice was barely audible. “Just… just locked me here. In the dark.”
“Well, ye’re nae in the dark anymore.” He offered his hand. “Me name is Seoc Cameron. And I’m goin’ tae take ye home tae yer family. Is that all right?”
She stared at his hand for a long moment, hardly daring to believe it was real. Then, slowly, she reached out and took it. His palm was warm and rough with calluses, and his grip was gentle but steady.
“That’s it. That’s brave.” He helped her to her feet, then frowned as she swayed. “When did ye last eat?”
“This… this mornin’. I think. They bring gruel once a day, but I dinnae…” She couldn’t remember. Time had lost all meaning in the darkness.
“Right.” Without asking permission, he scooped her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing. “Hold ontae me neck. Can ye dae that?”
She nodded and wrapped her thin arms around his neck, pressing her face against his shoulder. He smelled of leather and metal and something green and alive, the outside world she’d thought she’d never see again.
“I’ve got her,” he called to the others. “Let’s move.”
They carried her upstairs that seemed to go on forever, through corridors that rang with the sounds of fighting. Isla kept her face buried against Seoc’s shoulder, not wanting to see, not wanting to know what violence had been necessary to reach her.
“Is she the only one?” someone asked.
“Looks like it. The other cells were empty.” Seoc’s arms tightened around her. “But one is enough. We got what we came fer.”
“The English are rallyin’ at the gate. We need tae go. Now.”
“Then let’s go.”
They burst out into daylight so bright it hurt. Isla squeezed her eyes shut, overwhelmed by sensation after so long in darkness. Fresh air. Sunlight. The smell of grass and sky and freedom.
“Easy,” Seoc murmured, his voice close to her ear. “I ken it’s overwhelmin’. Just hold on tae me. I’ve got ye.”
More shouting. The clash of steel. Horses screaming. But through it all, Seoc’s arms remained steady, carrying her away from the nightmare that had been her prison.
“Get her on the horse!” someone shouted. “We need tae ride!”
Seoc lifted her onto a massive black stallion, then swung up behind her. His arms went around her, holding her secure against his chest, one hand on the reins and the other wrapped protectively around her waist.
“Hold tight,” he said. “We’re goin’ tae ride fast, but I willnae let ye fall. I promise.”
The horse lunged forward. Isla grabbed onto Seoc’s arm with both hands, terrified of falling, but he kept his word. His grip never wavered, his body sheltering hers as they galloped away from Lancaster’s fortress.
She didn’t know how long they rode. Time seemed to blur again, but in a different way, not the endless grey sameness of the cell, but a rush of sensation and sound and movement. Eventually they slowed, the horses pulling to a stop in a clearing where more men waited.
“Did ye get her?” someone called.
“Aye.” Seoc dismounted, then gently lifted Isla down. “Isla, this is Rhodri. He’s me second-in-command. He’s going tae look after ye fer a moment while I speak with the men. Is that all right?”
She didn’t want him to leave. He was the only solid thing in a world that had tilted sideways. But she nodded, trying to be brave.
“Good lass.” He squeezed her shoulder, then moved away to confer with the other warriors.
Rhodri knelt beside her, his face creased with concern. “How are ye holdin’ up, wee one?”
“I dinnae ken.” It was the most honest answer she could give. “Is this real? Am I really free?”
“Aye, ye’re really free. We’re takin’ ye home tae yer Da and Ma. They’ve been frantic with worry.”
“They… they remembered me?” The question came out small and broken. After how long she’d been there, she’d started to think maybe no one cared, that maybe they’d forgotten her.
“Remembered ye? Lass, they’ve thought of naethin’ else. Yer Da tried tae mount a rescue himself twice, but the English defenses were too strong. That’s when he came tae Laird Cameron fer help.”
“Why would the Camerons help?”
“Because that’s what honor demands. A child in danger, clan politics be damned.” Rhodri smiled. “Plus, young Seoc there insisted. Wouldnae take nay fer an answer. Said nay bairn should suffer like that if we had the power tae stop it.”
Isla looked over at Seoc, who was organizing the men for the journey home. He caught her looking and offered a reassuring smile.
“He saved me,” she whispered.
“Aye, he did. And he’ll make sure ye get home safely. That’s the kind of man he is.”
They rode through the day and into the night, stopping only briefly to rest the horses and let Isla eat something more substantial than gruel. Seoc stayed close throughout, checking on her, making sure she had water and food, speaking to her in that same gentle voice.
“Are ye cold?” he asked when she shivered during one stop. Without waiting for an answer, he draped his own cloak around her shoulders. “Better?”
“Aye. Thank ye.” She pulled the heavy fabric closer, breathing in the scent of freedom.
“We’ll reach Fletcher lands by tomorrow afternoon. Yer parents will be waitin’ fer ye.”
“What if…” She couldn’t finish the question. What if they didn’t want her anymore? What if being captive had somehow made her less than she was?
“What if what?” he prompted gently.
“What if they dinnae want me back? What if I’m… broken now?”
“Oh, lass.” He crouched down to her level, his grey eyes serious. “Listen tae me. Ye are nae broken. Ye survived somethin’ terrible, aye, but that makes ye strong, nae weak. And yer parents? They love ye more than anythin’ in this world. They’ll be so happy tae have ye home that naethin’ else will matter.”
“How dae ye ken?”
“Because I’ve met yer faither. I’ve seen how he speaks about ye, how desperate he was tae get ye back. That’s a man who’ll nae see ye as anythin’ but precious.” He touched her cheek gently. “Trust me on this.”
She did trust him. This man who’d broken down doors to find her, who’d carried her to safety, who’d given her his cloak and his gentleness and his certainty that she was worth saving.
“Will I see ye again?” she asked suddenly. “After ye take me home?”
“Perhaps. Fletcher and Cameron lands arenae so far apart. And somethin’ tells me ye’re nae the type tae be easily forgotten.”
She felt her cheeks heat. “I’m only eleven.”
“Aye, but ye’re eleven and brave enough tae survive three months in a dungeon without breakin’. That’s nae naethin’, Isla Fletcher. Remember that.”
They rode through the next day, and as the sun began its descent toward the horizon, familiar landmarks appeared. Isla’s heart started racing as she recognized the hills near her home.
“Almost there,” Seoc said from behind her. “Can ye see the keep?”
“Aye.” Tears blurred her vision. “I can see it.”
As they approached the gates, people began to pour out of the castle. Isla saw her mother first, her dark hair flying as she ran down the path. Then her father, his face transformed by joy and relief.
“Isla! Isla, me darlin’ girl!”
Seoc brought the horse to a stop and Isla practically fell off, stumbling toward her parents on legs that barely worked. Her mother caught her first, dropping to her knees to pull Isla into an embrace so tight it drove the breath from her lungs.
“Me baby. Me sweet baby. Ye’re home. Ye’re finally home.”
“Maither.” The word came out as a sob. “Maither, I was so frightened.”
“I ken. I ken, darlin’. But ye’re safe now. Ye’re home.” Her father’s arms came around them both, and Isla found herself enveloped in the warmth and safety she’d dreamed about every night in that cold cell.
Eventually, she looked up to find Seoc still on his horse, watching the reunion with a soft smile.
“Wait. I need tae…” She moved back toward him, her legs shaky. “Thank ye. Thank ye fer comin’ fer me. Fer nae leavin’ me there.”
“I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” He smiled at her. “Take care of yerself, Isla Fletcher. And remember, ye’re stronger than ye ken.”
“I’ll remember.” She wanted to say more, wanted to tell him that he was her hero, that she’d never forget him, that somehow she knew that moment would matter forever. But she was eleven and exhausted and overwhelmed, so she just whispered, “I’ll remember ye. I promise.”
“Good.” He nodded to her parents. “Laird Fletcher. Lady Fletcher. Yer daughter is home safe, as promised.”
“We’re in yer debt,” her father said, his voice thick with emotion. “Whatever ye need, whenever ye need it, ye have only tae ask.”
“Just take care of that brave lass. That’s payment enough.”
He wheeled his horse around and rode away, his men following. Isla watched until they disappeared over the hill, her hand pressed against the place where his cloak had been.
Someday, she promised herself. Someday I’ll be brave like him. Someday I’ll be strong enough to save people too.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
Don’t miss your link to the whole book at the end of the 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.
