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.
Campbell Castle, Scottish Highlands, September 1614
“Easy now, lad. Ye’re safe. Nay one will hurt ye again, I promise.”
The voice drifted through the haze of pain and exhaustion, rough with age but infinitely gentle. Even through the fog that seemed to fill his skull, Niel recognized something familiar in that weathered tone – something that spoke of home, though he’d almost forgotten what that word meant.
His young body felt like it belonged to someone else entirely, every muscle screaming in protest when he tried to shift on what felt impossibly soft beneath him. Clean linen instead of straw and filth. Warmth instead of the bone-deep cold that had been his constant companion for… how long had it been? Days? Weeks?
“Grandfaither?” The word cracked like breaking glass as it left his throat, raw from disuse and the screaming that had echoed off stone walls until his voice gave out entirely.
“Aye, lad. I’m here.” Edward’s weathered hand settled gently on his forehead, checking for fever with the practiced touch of a man who’d tended countless wounded warriors. “Yer grandmaither’s here too.”
Niel forced his eyes open despite the way even dim candlelight sent spikes of agony through his skull. The chamber around him was blessedly familiar – his own bedchamber in Campbell Castle, with its heavy oak furniture and tapestries depicting Highland scenes. Sunlight streamed through tall windows that had no iron bars across them, no chains hanging from the walls.
Nay bars, nay chains… I can move me hands!
The realization sent a shock through his small body, and he struggled to sit up despite every protesting muscle. He could make out two figures nearby – his grandfather’s imposing frame silhouetted against the afternoon light, and beside him the smaller, more delicate shape of the woman who’d been the closest thing to a mother he’d known since his parents’ deaths.
“Och, ye’re awake at last,” Evelyn said softly, moving toward the bed with careful grace. Her silver-gold hair was braided back from a face lined with worry and sleepless nights, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “How are ye feelin’, mo ghràdh?”
“Grandmaither,” he whispered, the word carrying all the relief and desperate love of a child who’d thought he’d never see her face again. “Everythin’ hurts…”
She settled onto the edge of the bed with the same maternal grace he remembered from countless childhood illnesses and nightmares, though the present was different. There was real trauma in him, scars both visible and hidden that would never fully heal.
“We thought we’d lost ye, lad,” Edward said quietly, his brown eyes bright with emotion he rarely allowed others to see. “When those MacDonald dogs took ye from the border village…”
“How long was I gone?” Niel asked, though part of him dreaded the answer. Time had become meaningless in that cell – days blending into nights in an endless cycle of hunger and fear and the constant drip of water through stone.
“Three months,” Evelyn said gently, her fingers smoothing his dark hair with infinite tenderness. “Three months we searched fer ye, followin’ every lead, chasin’ every rumor.”
“Easy now, lad,” Evelyn said gently. “Ye’ve been sleepin’ fer two days straight.”
“Ye came fer me.” he whispered, the word barely audible.
“Of course we did, wee dove” she said, settling carefully on the edge of the bed. “Did ye think we’d leave ye in that terrible place?”
They never stopped lookin’. Even when hope seemed lost, they kept searchin’.
“The MacDonalds,” Niel whispered, his hands instinctively moving to his wrists where iron shackles had left deep, infected wounds that were only now beginning to heal. “They said… they said they’d keep me forever. That I’d die in that cell.”
“They’re liars and cowards who prey on children,” Evelyn said fiercely, though her touch remained infinitely gentle. “And they’ll answer fer what they did tae ye, I promise ye that.”
But will that take away the memories? Will it stop me from feelin’ like I might break apart every time someone raises their voice?
“How did ye find me?” he asked, needing to understand how he’d escaped what had seemed like a living tomb.
Edward’s expression grew grim with satisfaction. “We had help from an unexpected source. One of their own guards – a man whose conscience finally got the better of him when he saw what they were daein’ tae a bairn. He slipped us some information about which dungeon they were keepin’ ye in, though it cost him his life when they discovered his betrayal.”
“One of ‘em helped me?” The idea seemed impossible after months of experiencing nothing but cruelty at MacDonald hands.
“Aye. It seems even among our enemies, though few they are, there are still those who cannae stomach the torture of innocents.” Edward’s voice carried grudging respect tinted with sorrow. “But he paid dearly fer his conscience in the end.”
“Tell me about the rescue,” Niel said suddenly, needing to replace the memories of captivity with something real and hopeful. “Tell me how ye got me out.”
Edward settled into a chair beside the bed, his weathered face lightening slightly. “Och, lad, ‘twas quite the adventure. We went in under cover of darkness with two dozen of our best men…”
As his grandfather spoke, painting vivid pictures of the daring raid that had freed him, Niel felt something inside his chest that had been frozen solid for months begin to crack. Not healing – that would take much longer – but the first tiny stirrings of hope.
I matter tae them. I’m worth somethin’… nay matter what the MacDonalds told me.
“The guards?” he asked when Edward finished his tale.
“Dead or fled,” Edward replied with grim satisfaction. “They willnae be hurtin’ any more children, ye can count on that.”
Evelyn’s green eyes filled with tears she’d been holding back. “Now ye heal, mo ghràdh. Ye rest and eat proper food and remember what it feels like tae be safe and loved, aye?”
“But what if they come back?” The question slipped out before Niel could stop it, carrying all the terror of a child who’d learned that safety could be torn away in an instant.
Edward’s weathered face grew stern. “They’ll nae dare. We made certain of that when we freed ye. The MacDonalds ken the price of touchin’ a Campbell child now. And when ye’re ready,” Edward added, his brown eyes warm with affection, “ye’ll learn what it means tae be a Campbell. How tae protect yer people, how tae lead with honor. But nae until ye’re ready, lad.”
A Campbell. Someday I’ll be responsible fer protectin’ others the way they protected me.
As drowsiness tugged at his consciousness, Niel felt his grandparents’ presence like a warm blanket around him. The afternoon sun streamed through windows with no bars, carrying the sounds of normal life – people working, children playing, the peaceful rhythm of a clan going about its daily business.
“Sleep now, mo chridhe, ” Evelyn whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “We’ll be here when ye wake.”
And for the first time in three months, Niel Campbell slept without nightmares, cradled in the knowledge that he was home, he was loved, and he would never be alone again.
Outside his window, Campbell Castle stood strong against the Highland sky, its walls a promise that some things endured – that love could triumph over hate, that family bonds were stronger than enemy chains, and that sometimes the greatest victories came not from conquest, but from the courage to never give up hope.
The nightmare was over. The healing had begun.
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
The open seas between Islay and the Scottish mainland, September 1636
“Promise me ye’ll keep this close, mo chridhe.”
Mirren MacDonald wrapped her fingers around the leather-wrapped dagger her father pressed into her palm, the familiar weight of Highland steel both comforting and ominous in the salt-tinged morning air. The blade was exquisitely crafted – its surface etched with the MacDonald crest, though Mirren knew this was no mere ceremonial gift.
“‘Tis beautiful, Faither,” she said, though her voice carried none of the joy such a fine weapon should inspire. “But surely ye dinnae expect–”
“I expect naething but treachery from any Campbell that draws breath,” Laird Lachlann MacDonald growled, his weathered face unforgiving. The battle scars that crisscrossed his knuckles caught the morning light as his grip tightened on her shoulders with calloused hands that had seen decades of clan warfare. “Ye may be commanded tae marry the man, but that daesnae mean ye should trust him. Sleep with this beneath yer pillow, lass. And if he dares tae raise a hand tae ye, ye put that steel between his ribs and ask questions later.”
Mirren studied her father’s features, seeing the weight of forty years of clan warfare etched in every line around his eyes. The jagged scar that ran from his left temple to his jaw, a Campbell blade’s gift from his youth, seemed to pulse with old fury in the pale light. The morning breeze carried the scent of kelp and brine across the harbor, mingling with the smoke from the castle’s morning fires – scents that had comforted her throughout her three-and-twenty years on Islay. Now, they felt like a farewell.
“I promise,” she said, securing the blade to her belt beneath her traveling cloak. “But Faither, if ye truly believe Niel Campbell means me harm, why are we honorin’ the king’s command?”
Lachlann’s expression darkened further. “Because even an unpopular king’s word is law, and I’ll nae give the Crown reason tae bring English soldiers tae our shores.” His voice dropped to a dangerous rumble. “But that daesnae mean we’re sheep led tae slaughter. The Campbells think us island folk soft – they’ll soon learn different if they test MacDonald steel.” He tilted her chin upwards with his thumb and index finger, his roughened hands surprisingly gentle against her sun-bronzed cheeks. “Ye carry the blood of sea kings in yer veins – never forget that.”
A shout from the harbor drew their attention to where the MacDonald galley awaited, its blue and white banner snapping proudly in the wind. Sailors moved about the deck with practiced efficiency, preparing for the journey that would change everything.
“‘Tis time,” Lachlann said, though the words seemed to pain him. His jaw worked silently for a moment before he pulled her into a rare, fierce embrace that spoke of battles fought and wars yet to come. “The tide waits fer nay one.”
Mirren embraced her father, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and heather that had always clung to him.
Will I ever smell the heather of home again, ever?
“I’ll make ye proud, Faither. And if the Campbells think tae break me, they’ll find I’m made of the same steel that forges the Laird of the Isles.”
“If only Finlay could have come with ye,” Lachlann said roughly, his voice thickened by regret. “Yer braither would gut anyone that looked at ye sideways.”
Mirren’s throat constricted at the mention of her brother. Finlay had raged like a Highland storm when the king’s letter had arrived, but even he couldn’t defy royal command. “I ken he wanted tae sail with us,” she whispered. “But someone needs tae protect Islay if this is all a trap.”
Her father gave her a single, curt nod. “Now go show those mainland mutts what a true MacDonald looks like.”
Shortly after, the galley cut through the gray waters of the Scottish coast with steady purpose, each stroke of the oars carrying Mirren farther from everything she’d ever known. She stood at the stern, watching Islay grow smaller until it became nothing more than a dark smudge against the horizon, her fingers unconsciously tracing the outline of her concealed weapon.
Every league takes me closer tae me cage.
“Me lady?” Una’s gentle voice broke through her melancholy. “Ye’ve been standin’ there fer near an hour. ‘Tis nae like ye tae be so quiet.”
Mirren turned to face her maid and dearest friend, managing a weak smile. Una’s brown eyes were warm with concern, her light hair whipping about her face in the sea breeze. At six-and-twenty, Una had been with Mirren since they were both girls, and she knew her mistress better than anyone.
“I’ve naething cheerful tae say, Una. What would ye have me speak of – the joy of bein’ sold tae our clan’s greatest enemy? The pleasure of leavin’ everything I love fer a marriage tae a man who probably wishes me dead?”
Una moved closer, lowering her voice so the nearby sailors couldn’t overhear. “Ye dinnae ken that, me lady. Perhaps Laird Campbell is different from what ye’ve been told. Perhaps–”
“Och, and perhaps he’s precisely what every wretched Campbell has been fer forty years,” Mirren interrupted, her green eyes flashing while the wind lapped at her reddish-auburn hair. “Nay more than a schemin’, power-hungry brute who’d slit me throat in me sleep if it served his clan’s interest.”
“Then why would the king command such a union?”
Mirren laughed bitterly. “Because King Charles thinks he can forge peace through forced marriages, as if hatred that’s been bred intae our bones fer generations can be simply washed away with weddin’ vows.”
Una was quiet for a moment, studying her mistress’s face. “I’ve never seen ye without a tale on yer lips, me lady. Even durin’ the darkest times, ye always found stories tae lift spirits and bring hope. Where are they now?”
The question struck deeper than Una had probably intended. Mirren had always been the keeper of her clan’s stories, the one who could weave words like magic and make the past come alive around a fire. But what story could she tell now? What hope could she find in being bartered away like cattle?
“Me stories are fer those who have reason fer hope,” she said finally. “I fear I’ve little of that tae spare.”
“Sail ho!” the cry from the crow’s nest cut through their conversation like a newly whetted blade. “Ship approachin’ from the north!”
Mirren’s heart lurched as she turned toward the horizon where a dark speck was growing larger by the moment. That had to be the Campbell vessel – the ship that would complete her journey into exile.
“‘Tis them,” she whispered, her hand instinctively moving to her dagger’s hilt. “The Campbells.”
Una squeezed her arm gently. “Remember, me lady, yer faither sent his finest men tae guard ye. Ye’re nae alone in this.”
The approaching ship grew clearer as it drew near, its sails full of wind as it cut through the choppy waters. Mirren tried to steel herself for whatever came next, but her stomach churned with more than just seasickness.
“Somethin’s wrong,” said Hamish, one of her father’s most trusted men-at-arms, as he approached with his hand resting on his sword hilt. “That ship’s nae flyin’ colors.”
Before anyone could respond, the thunderous boom of a cannon split the morning air like the roar of an ancient Highland beast. A heartbeat later, the sea erupted in a violent geyser just off their starboard bow – water and foam exploding skyward in a deadly fountain that crashed down across the deck, soaking them all in icy brine.
“Attack!” Hamish’s voice cracked like a whip above the chaos. “We’re under attack! All hands tae arms!”
The galley lurched violently as another cannon ball screamed overhead, the wind of its passage so close that Mirren could feel it ruffle her hair. The massive iron sphere crashed into the water beyond them, sending up another towering spray that painted the air white with salt mist.
Chaos broke out all over the deck. Sailors ran in all directions, some crawling behind barrels and masts for shelter, and others sprinting to the weapon stores with fear written all over their faces. The quiet morning had turned into a nightmare of shouting, pounding feet, and the horrible smell of cannon smoke wafting over the sea.
Mirren grabbed Una’s arm, her fingers digging into the wool of her maid’s sleeve as she pulled her toward the galley’s center.
Blessed Saints, is this really happenin’?
Another thunderous blast echoed across the waves, and this time, the iron ball found its mark – smashing into their port rail with a sound like the world splitting apart.
“What’s happenin’?” Una cried over the mayhem.
“Must be the Campbells!” Mirren quipped, fury replacing fear as understanding dawned. “Strikin’ like cowards with nay flag. The bastards mean tae kill me on neutral seas, before I ever reach their lands. They’ll claim it was pirates!”
Hamish appeared at her side like an avenging angel, his broadsword already singing in his weathered grip, the steel gleaming with deadly purpose. “Me lady! We need tae get ye tae safety… if they mean tae board us–”
His words were severed as a grappling hook bit into the galley’s hull with metallic shrieks that scraped against wood and iron. The enemy ship had closed the distance with terrifying speed, and now thick ropes stretched between the vessels like the web of some monstrous sea spider.
Steel rang against steel as the first wave of enemy warriors swung across the gap and onto the planks beneath Mirren’s feet – wild-haired men with murder in their eyes and blood already splattered across their leather jerkins. They landed on the MacDonald deck with predatory grace, their battle cries splitting the air like the howls of Highland wolves.
“Protect the lady!” Hamish roared, his voice nearly lost as he parried a vicious sword thrust. His blade caught the morning light as it carved through the air, opening an attacker’s throat in a spray of crimson that painted the deck planks scarlet.
The MacDonald sailors fought with desperate courage, but they’d been caught unprepared. Men all around them started to fall, some screaming as Highland steel stabbed their flesh and others falling without a sound. Blood and seawater made the deck slick, turning it into a horrific battlefield that shook and pitched with every wave.
Mirren pulled out her blade in one smooth move, and the unused steel hissed as it came out of its leather sheath. She might be a political pawn, but she was still a MacDonald. She would be damned if she walked meekly into whatever dark fate awaited her.
The first enemy soldier who reached her swiftly learned that Highland lasses were not entirely helpless. The scarred brute with missing teeth and a rusted dirk lunged at her with a snarl of anticipated victory. Mirren sidestepped his clumsy thrust with the grace of someone who’d danced since childhood, then drove her father’s gift deep between his ribs. The man’s eyes widened in shock as steel pierced leather and found his heart. He dropped with nothing more than a wet gurgle.
One down, she thought grimly, already spinning away from another attacker.
How many more tae go?
Una screamed as a wild-eyed warrior with a notched axe bore down on them, his weapon raised high enough to split a skull.
“Una! Stay close!” Mirren shouted over the din of battle as one of the MacDonald sailors intercepted the attacker. She grabbed the maid’s trembling hand. “We need tae reach the boats!”
All around them, the battle was raging with brutal fury. The sound of metal crashing against metal created a horrific cacophony, accompanied by the cries of the injured and the thuds of dead bodies on the deck. The metallic smell of blood and the sour smoke from the enemy ship’s cannons filled the air.
Mirren knew their predicament was hopeless and even as she fought her desperation grew. Whoever was attacking them had arrived well-prepared for battle, leaving her father’s warriors bewildered and unable to mount a coordinated defense. Corpses, both enemy and MacDonald, lay strewn about the deck like fallen leaves; the boards were stained scarlet from the combination of blood and salt spray.
Mirren could taste the copper on her tongue.
We’re all goin’ tae die here…
Then, cutting across the chaos like a Highland drum calling warriors to battle, she heard it – the distant blast of another ship’s horn echoing across the water. The bow of a third ship was slicing through the water like a dagger through silk as it drew dangerously close. From its deck, screams of war resounded as armed men readied themselves for combat, their weapons shining like dangerous stars in the early morning light.
“Look there!” Una pointed through the billowing smoke toward the new arrival, her voice quivering with frantic hope. “More sails! But I dinnae ken whose side they’ll take.”
On the deck of the approaching ship, Mirren caught sight of a commanding figure directing men with sharp, decisive gestures that spoke of battle experience. Even at that distance, there was something about his presence that made her breath catch – the way he moved with predatory grace, the manner in which his warriors responded to his every command like a pack following their leader.
The tall warrior’s broad shoulders moved with lethal purpose, his dark hair wild in the sea wind, and even from here she could see the controlled power in every gesture he made. He stood like a Highland god of war made flesh – tall enough to tower over his men, with the kind of masculine presence that could command a battlefield or silence a great hall with a single look.
Who is this man who commands such loyalty?
The battle raged on with increasing ferocity, steel whipping and slashing in a deadly dance as the newcomers prepared to join the fray. Blood painted the deck in abstract patterns of violence, and the groans of the wounded created a horrible chorus beneath the ring of weapons.
A bearded giant with a two-handed sword came at Mirren like death incarnate, his massive blade whooshing through the air with enough force to cleave her in half. She threw herself backward, feeling the wind of his strike ruffle her hair as the steel passed close enough to shave whiskers.
Too bloody close!
Chapter Two
“The dinghy!” Hamish bellowed over the chaos, his sword painting arcs through the smoky air. “Get the lady tae the dinghy! Now!”
Mirren felt rough hands seize her arms as two of her father’s most trusted men – Ewan and Duncan – hauled her away from the spreading panic. Around them, the MacDonald galley had become a floating battlefield, with enemy warriors pouring across the deck like a plague born from steel and fury. The choking smell of burning wood and tar filled her nostrils, tinted with the metallic scent of blood that seemed to now coat everything.
“Me lady! This way!” Ewan shouted, his face grim as he pulled her toward the stern where their escape boat waited. Blood splattered his leather jerkin from a dozen small wounds, but his grip remained strong and sure. “We need tae get ye safely off this ship afore–”
His words were cut short as an enemy axe whistled past his ear, close enough to trim his beard. The warrior who’d thrown it snarled as he reached for another weapon, his eyes gleaming with bloodlust and the promise of easy coin. But Duncan’s blade found his throat first, opening it in a spray of arterial blood that made Mirren’s stomach churn.
“Move!” Duncan commanded, stepping over the twitching corpse without a second glance. His sword dripped red as he scanned for more threats. “The whole bloody ship’s afire!”
He was right. Mirren could smell the putrid smoke billowing from the galley’s belly, could see orange flames licking hungrily at the rigging above like demons reaching for heaven. Someone had set fire to their stores, and now, death approached from blade and flame and ocean. The heat was already making the air simmer, and she could hear ominous creaks as the timber blazed around her.
Una stumbled beside her, tears streaming down her face as she clutched at Mirren’s cloak with white-knuckled fingers. “Me lady… why are they tryin’ tae kill us?”
“Because someone wants this alliance tae fail,” Mirren said, her green eyes blazing with fury as another enemy warrior charged toward them through the smoke. The man moved like a carnivorous beast, his sword gleaming with fresh blood.
But who? Surely nae the Campbells… maybe another clan entirely?
Ewan’s sword met the attacker with a sound like thunder, steel swooshing against steel in a deadly dance. The enemy was skilled – a scarred brute with arms like tree trunks – but Ewan had been fighting Highland battles since before Mirren was born. His blade found the gap in the man’s leather jerkin, sliding between ribs to pierce his heart.
They reached the dinghy just as another section of the ship’s rigging collapsed in a shower of sparks and burning rope, the flames spreading like wildfire through the Highland heather. The small boat hung suspended over the churning waters beneath them, secured by thick hemp ropes that creaked eerily with each wave. Below them, the dark sea churned like a witch’s cauldron – foam capped waves reaching upward like grasping fingers.
“Get in, me lady!” Duncan commanded, helping her over the rail with hands that shook despite his warrior’s training. The boat rocked dangerously as the waves shifted its balance. “Una! Hurry!”
Mirren dropped into the narrow boat, her knees hitting the wooden planks hard enough to bruise. The dinghy was smaller than she’d expected – barely large enough for four people, with rough-hewn seats and a patched sail that had most certainly seen much better days. Una stumbled in beside her, sobbing with terror as the sounds of battle raged above them like the wrath of angry gods. Through the smoke and chaos, she could see the third ship was much closer now – close enough to make out the commanding figure she’d spotted earlier directing his men with deadly precision.
Sweet mercy…but he’s magnificent – like somethin’ carved from Highland granite and brought tae life by the old gods themselves…
“Lower away!” Ewan called to Duncan, both men working frantically to release the pulley system that would drop them to safety. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, mingling with soot and blood despite the cold sea air as their hands moved with desperate efficiency.
But safety was an illusion in Highland waters, especially when blood feuds ran deeper than the sea itself.
“Behind ye!” a new voice roared – deep, commanding, and filled with the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed on battlefields and council chambers alike.
Mirren spun toward the sound and felt her breath catch like a fishbone in her throat. Above them on the deck, a towering warrior materialized; he sliced through enemy soldiers with the fluid grace of the grim reaper. Even in the midst of the mayhem, his swordplay was awe-inspiring; his strikes were deliberate and his movements were lethally efficient, like witnessing a master craftsman at work. His dark hair whipped about his broad shoulders as he battled.
By me troth… ‘tis him again!
She wondered who he was, mesmerized despite the battle raging like hellfire around her. Mirren stood transfixed, unable to look away from the magnificent stranger.
He fights like the devil himself!
The mysterious warrior stood tall, his muscled frame outlined against the smoky sky as he moved with predatory grace. His blue eyes – even from that distance she could see they blazed like winter fire – swept the battlefield with tactical precision. When he turned to bark orders at his men, she caught sight of his profile: strong jaw, aristocratic nose, the bearing of someone born to command.
Och… he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on. What’s wrong with me, thinkin’ of such things in the middle of a battle?
The warrior’s blade opened one enemy throat after the other, then spun to parry another attack with moves so precise they almost seemed choreographed by the gods of war themselves. He fought like a man born for battle. His blue eyes blazed with cold fury as he cut down another attacker, and Mirren found herself unable to look away, despite the life-threatening danger drawing ever closer. She could feel the dinghy tilting beneath her feet, could hear the ominous crack of wood straining against the ship’s hull, yet her gaze remained fixed on him like a compass – as though he were the only true thing in a world gone entirely mad.
“The rope!” Una screamed, pointing upward with a trembling finger.
Mirren’s gaze snapped to where another enemy soldier – a wiry man with a notched dirk – was sawing frantically at the thick hemp that held their dinghy suspended. He cackled as the blade bit deep into the fibers, sending strands flying with each stroke.
“Nay!” Ewan lunged toward the saboteur, but he was too late.
The rope snapped with a sound like a crossbow string and the dinghy plummeted toward the icy, churning waters like a stone dropped from heaven. Mirren felt her stomach lurch as they fell, the world spinning in a nauseating blur of sky and sea and fire. Una’s shrieks pierced the air, high and desperate, just before they hit the waves with devastating force.
Mirren gasped as icy seawater crashed over the sides, soaking into their skin as the dinghy’s hull cracked against the ship’s barnacle-encrusted side. Wood splintered with sounds like breaking bones, and then, suddenly the boat was taking on water faster than a sieve.
We’re sinkin’!
Panic clawed at her chest as more icy water swirled around her legs.
But worse was yet to come. As the dinghy twisted sharply to starboard, a section of the broken hull – a jagged piece of oak the size of a man’s head – broke free and tumbled toward her with murderous intent.
Mirren tried to dodge it, but the rocking of the waves threw her off-balance. The splintered wood caught her across the temple with a blow that sent stars exploding behind her eyes. Sharp pain lanced through her skull, and she felt herself falling backward into the freezing embrace of the unforgiving Highland sea.
I’m drowning, she thought dimly as salty water filled her mouth and nose.
Darkness closed over her, and she felt her strength bleeding away with every heartbeat. The sounds of battle grew distant and muffled, as if heard through thick wool. Her limbs grew heavier than standing stones and she began to sink beneath the waves.
Then, strong hands seized her, hauling her upward with desperate strength.
***
Niel Campbell had seen enough battles to know when one was already lost.
The MacDonald galley blazed like a funeral pyre against the gray sky, black smoke billowing from her rigging as enemy warriors swarmed across her deck like carrion crows. From the prow of his own ship, he watched the chaos unfold with a calculating eye – noting the enemy’s numbers, their positions, the way they moved with the coordinated precision of men who’d thoroughly planned the attack.
“Mercenaries, most likely,” he growled to Kerr, who stood beside him with his own sword already drawn. “Has tae be. Look at their formation – they’re lookin’ fer somethin’ specific.”
“Nay colors.” Kerr replied grimly. “D’ye think they mean tae take the lass alive?”
Niel’s jaw tightened as he spotted a flash of auburn hair near the stern where a small group was fighting desperately around what looked like a dinghy. Even from this distance, he knew who she was – Lady Mirren MacDonald, his bride-to-be, been fighting like a wildcat while her guards tried to get her to safety.
“Over the rail, lads!” he commanded, his deep voice cutting through the din of battle. “And try nae tae kill any MacDonalds while ye’re at it aye!”
He swung over the side of the ship in one fluid motion, dropping to the MacDonald deck just as the dinghy’s rope snapped. Time seemed to slow as he watched the small boat plummet toward the churning waters below, carrying with it the woman whose fate was now bound to his own.
“Nae!” the word tore from his throat as he saw her strike the water, saw the splintered wood catch her across the temple, saw her auburn hair spread like blood in the waves as she sunk.
Without thought, without hesitation, Niel Campell dove after her.
The icy Highland water hit him like the fist of an angry god, stealing his breath and turning his world into a spinning nightmare of salt and darkness. But Niel fought against the cold, against the weight of his sword and clothing, swimming through the murky depths until his searching found soft fabric, and warm flesh.
He hauled her upward with desperate strength, breaking the surface just as her lips were turning blue.
Bloody hell, how can an unconscious lass be so beautiful?
Niel Campbell pulled the limp form of his bride-to-be against his chest, his heart hammering like a war drum as he fought to keep them both above the churning waves. Her auburn hair floated darkly around them like seaweed, catching the light even in the gray morning, and a thin trail of blood trickled from the gash on her temple where the broken dinghy had struck her.
If she dies before we’re even properly wed, this whole damned alliance disintegrates with her!
But even as the political implications raced through his mind, something deeper drove his desperate efforts to save her. She’d fought like a wildcat on that burning deck, had faced death with the kind of courage that would make any clan proud. This was no damsel to be protected – this woman was a warrior in her own right.
“Me laird!” Kerr’s voice carried across the water as the Campbell galley drew alongside the wreckage, its crew working frantically to maneuver closer. “Is she–?”
“Aye,” Niel called back, though he wasn’t entirely certain. Her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird beneath his fingertips, and her skin felt cold as winter stone. “Lower a rope! Now!”
The next few minutes passed in a blur of frantic activity that felt like hours. Willing hands hauled them both aboard the Campbell ship, where Niel laid the unconscious body of his intended bride on a pile of soft furs that had been hastily arranged near the mizzenmast. Her maid – a brown-haired slip of a thing who’d somehow survived the dinghy’s destruction – knelt beside her mistress with tears streaming down her face.
“Will she live?” the maid whispered, her voice breaking with grief and terror. “Please… tell me she’ll live.”
“Aye,” Niel said with more confidence than he felt. “She’s got MacDonald blood in her veins… too dammed stubborn tae die easily.”
He turned his attention to the MacDonald survivors who’d been pulled from the water, his blue eyes blazing with barely controlled fury. Three men stood dripping on his deck – two soldiers who’d been trying to lower the dinghy, and an older warrior who seemed to be their leader.
“What in the hell happened over there?” Niel demanded, his voice carrying the crack of command. “How did ye let armed enemies get close enough tae attack a defenseless bride?”
The older MacDonald – a grizzled man with steel-gray hair – bristled at the implied criticism. “We were outnumbered three tae one, Campbell! And those werenae ordinary pirates. They fought like men with a purpose, like bloody mercenaries!”
“A purpose that nearly got me bride killed!” Niel’s hand moved to his sword hilt, the gesture unconscious but unmistakable. “Ye were supposed tae deliver her safely!”
“We did our duty!” one of the younger soldiers snapped, his own temper flaring. “Ye’ve nay right tae–”
“I have every damned right!” Niel’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “When yer incompetence nearly–”
Niel was still arguing with the MacDonald soldiers when he noticed the slight movement among the furs. Her eyelids fluttered first – just a barely perceptible tremor that made him pause mid-sentence. Then, her fingers twitched, and he saw her brow furrow as consciousness began to return.
“… supposed tae protect her, nae deliver her intae enemy hands like ye were bringin’ them their Yuletide goose!” he continued, but his attention was split now, watching as Lady Mirren MacDonald slowly fought her way to awareness.
Her breathing changed, becoming less shallow, more deliberate. Then her head moved slightly, and he could see her struggling against the fog of unconsciousness. But as the seconds passed, he watched understanding dawning in her eyes – first confusion, then growing awareness of the voices around her, and finally… fury.
She struggled to sit up among the furs, her movements unsteady but determined, and when she spoke, her voice carried all the fire he expected from a MacDonald.
“Who… who exactly dae ye think ye are?”
The soft but defiant voice silenced every man on deck. Even battered and half-drowned, there was something magnificent about her – the proud tilt of her chin, the way she faced him without flinching despite her obvious injuries. Her auburn hair clung to her face and shoulders like dark silk, and even soaked with seawater, it caught the gray morning light with threads of fire. She was smaller than he’d expected, there was nothing fragile about the way she held herself.
She willnae bend fer any man, but especially nae a Campbell.
“Who am I?” he repeated, moving to kneel beside her. “I’m the man who just pulled ye from the sea, lass.”
As he drew closer, Niel noticed how her breath seemed to catch, how her eyes widened slightly as she took in his appearance. Even injured and defiant, there was something in her gaze that made his pulse quicken – a flicker of awareness that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the dangerous pull between enemies who found themselves inexplicably drawn to one another.
What in the devil’s name is wrong with me? She’s a MacDonald – I should despise her on sight.
“That daesnae give ye the right tae shout at me faither’s men like they’re disobedient hounds!” She tried to stand, swayed dangerously, then accepted her maid’s steadying hand with obvious reluctance. “They fought bravely, and they protected me as best they could!”
Niel couldn’t help but notice how she trembled slightly when he steadied her with gentle hands, how her skin warmed beneath his touch despite her obvious efforts to pull away. There was something almost vulnerable in the way she allowed him to help her, as if part of her wanted to lean into his strength even as her pride demanded she stand alone.
“Their best nearly got ye killed,” Niel pointed out, his voice gentler now but no less firm. “If I hadnae arrived when I did–”
Mirren’s eyes flashed like green fire. “I’m nae some helpless flower that needs a man’s protection tae survive!”
Niel felt his teeth grinding against one another as his jaw tightened.
Fierce as a Highland storm and twice as beautiful. Nay wonder her faither was reluctant tae give her up.
“Ye ken,” he said, his voice hardening with barely controlled irritation that made her eyes narrow, “most women would thank a man fer savin’ their life. Perhaps offer a bit of gratitude rather than a tongue-lashin’.”
“Most women,” Mirren shot back, her green eyes flashing like emerald fire, “havnae been raised by a MacDonald laird who taught them that acceptin’ help from a Campbell is like acceptin’ charity from the devil himself.”
“Ah,” Niel nodded. “So ye’re sayin’ I’m the devil now? Here I thought I was merely a humble rescuer who happened tae be in the right place at the right time.”
“Humble?” Mirren let out a laugh that was equal parts incredulous and genuinely amused despite herself. “Ye, humble? I doubt ye’ve had a humble moment in yer entire life.”
“Well,” he said, his voice taking on a dry note. “I didnae mention how devastatingly handsome I am, did I? Surely that shows remarkable restraint on me part.”
Niel watched as her eyes narrowed with what he suspected was grudging amusement. “Modest as well as handsome, I see. What a rare combination.”
“Nay, lass,” he said quietly, studying her face with new appreciation. “Ye’re definitely nae helpless. But ye are me responsibility now.”
“Yer responsibility?” She straightened despite the obvious pain it caused her. “And who, exactly, appointed ye me guardian? Because I dinnae recall asking fer–”
“I’m Niel Campbell,” he said simply, watching as understanding dawned in her stunning emerald eyes. “Laird of Clan Campbell.”
The silence that followed was so complete that the only sounds were the creak of rigging and the splash of waves against the hull. Mirren stared at him as if seeing him for the first time, her face cycling through a dozen different emotions – surprise, anger, fear, and something else he couldn’t quite identify.
“Laird Campbell,” she repeated slowly, as if tasting the word and finding it bitter on her tongue. Her green eyes swept over him again, this time with new understanding. “Of course ye are. I should have kent from the arrogance alone.” For a moment, she simply stared at him. “So,” she said finally, her voice carefully controlled. “Ye’re the bastard I’m supposed tae marry.”
“Aye. And ye’re the MacDonald lass who’s supposed bring peace between our clans.” He said, his expression hard. “Though from what I’ve seen, peace seems unlikely.”
His gaze flitted around them. “Get them off me ship,” Niel commanded his men, gesturing toward the survivors. “All of them. They sail back tae their own lands immediately.”
“But me laird–” one of his men began.
“Now.” He said, his voice deadly quiet. “Nae MacDonald sets foot on Campbell soil today except the lass.”
Mirren’s eyes flashed with fury. “Ye cannae just–”
“Aye, I can. And I will.” He turned towards his crew. “Set course fer Campbell lands.”
The look she gave him could have melted granite, her hands clenching at her sides.
“So, this is how it begins then, Campbell? With ye showin’ yer true nature.”
“Aye,” he replied coldly. “Best ye learn it quickly, lass.”
As his ship turned toward home, Niel Campbell silently wondered whether he’d just rescued his bride, or invited a viper into his bed.
The scent of pine smoke clung stubbornly to Castle Galbraith’s stones, a remnant of the feast that had burned late into the night. Vivienne inhaled it as she moved through the passage, skirts whispering against the flagstones, the weight of her satchel steady at her hip. Her steps echoed softly in the quiet, and her thoughts, as ever, turned back to a time when she had walked halls like this one with a far different stride, her head bent to her mother’s sharp whispers, her tongue sharpened to wound those who had done nothing but exist.
Odette.
Even the name was enough to stir shame that never truly dulled. Once, Vivienne had stood in her mother’s shadow, a willing accomplice to cruelty she had not dared question. She remembered laughing when Odette faltered, mocking her when her voice caught, turning away when she was left alone and aching. It had been easier to obey, to please, to be the daughter her mother demanded instead of the sister Odette had needed.
But that world was gone. Vivienne had watched it fall piece by piece, the mask ripped from her mother’s face, the cruelty exposed and discarded like a rotten cloak. And she had watched Odette rise, her quiet steel revealed, until she stood beside Gregory Galbraith as his wife, her head high, her worth undeniable. A queen carved from ash.
Vivienne had hated herself most in those moments. Hated the girl she had been, small and vicious, a reflection of another’s will. But hatred, she had learned, could be a seed as much as a poison. From it had grown something else, something that had carried her through the war and after.
Healing. She had discovered her talent almost by accident, binding a wound in the chaos of battle, pressing linen to stop a bleeding that would have ended a man’s life. Her fingers had not trembled then. They had known what to do, as though some part of her had always been waiting to be used for more than spite. From that moment, she had not stopped. She had learned poultices and sutures, tinctures and teas. She had burned her fingers on boiling honey, stained her skirts with wine and blood, memorized the smell of herbs until they haunted her sleep.
And now, when she walked through the halls of Galbraith, it was not as her mother’s daughter or her sister’s shadow. It was as Vivienne, healer.
The chamber she entered was bright with morning, light pouring through the narrow window slits to fall across the straw mattress where a soldier sat, bare-chested and pale. A line of red crossed his ribs, angry and raw, though shallow enough that it had not cut deep. His friends stood clustered near the wall, their faces still pink from laughter, though they tried to school themselves into solemnity as she entered.
Vivienne set her satchel down with a thump. “Which o’ ye thought it wise tae let him climb trees wi’ a blade in his hand?”
The men grinned despite themselves, glancing at one another. One, the youngest, spoke up. “He said he could dae it.”
The wounded soldier shot him a glare, though his cheeks darkened as his gaze flicked back to Vivienne. “It was naught. Just a slip. Hardly worth callin’ ye fer.”
Vivienne arched a brow, pulling a jar from her satchel. The scent of thyme and honey filled the air as she opened it. “A slip that’s left ye bleeding across half yer chest. If this is what ye call naught, lad, I dinnae wish tae see what ye call serious.”
His friends snickered. He ducked his head, muttering, “I didnae want tae trouble ye.”
Her mouth twitched, though she smothered it into something stern. “Ye’ll trouble me more if ye let it fester. Now sit straight.”
He obeyed at once, his back stiffening as though she were the laird himself. Vivienne dipped her fingers into the salve and began to spread it across the wound, her touch firm but careful. The soldier hissed, then clenched his jaw, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the far wall. His skin was hot beneath her hands, the muscle tense under the sting of the balm.
“Breathe,” she instructed, her voice gentler now. “It will bite at first, but the pain will pass.”
He did, though his chest rose sharp, the breath uneven. She could feel the heat of his gaze flickering toward her, quick and guilty, every time she shifted. She knew that look. It was the look of someone who thought kindness might mean something more.
When the salve was spread, she took up a strip of linen and began to wind it across his ribs, tight enough to hold but not to choke. His friends began whispering then, loud enough for her to hear.
“Bet he fell just tae have her hands on him.”
“Aye, next time he’ll throw himself from the wall.”
“Or the stables, if he thinks she’ll kiss him better.”
The boy flushed scarlet. “Shut yer mouths.”
Vivienne’s lips curved despite herself. She tied the bandage neat and pressed her palm to it, steady. “If ye mean tae wound yerself fer attention, lad, pick somewhere less daft than a chest wound. A nick on the arm would dae as well, and ye could still lift a cup wi’out tearing the stitches.”
His friends roared with laughter. The boy groaned, burying his face in his hands.
Vivienne’s voice softened as she leaned back. “Keep it clean. Change the linen twice a day. Nay hunting, nae climbing, nae wrestling—though I doubt ye’ll listen.”
He peeked at her through his fingers, half a smile tugging his mouth. “I’ll listen if ye tell me again.”
His friends howled at that, and Vivienne shook her head, gathering her satchel with a sigh. Saints save her, he was barely more than a boy. It was harmless, and yet, she remembered when she had once thought such fancies were worth clinging to, before she had seen what love truly was.
Her heart tightened at the thought of Odette again, radiant beside Gregory, her hand steady in his even as the world had crumbled. Love was not fluttering hearts and foolish wounds. It was steel. It was choosing each other when the walls shook and the blood ran.
She straightened, her voice brisk once more. “Rest. Heal. I’ll look at it again.”
And with that, she swept from the chamber, her satchel slung once more at her side, the laughter of the soldiers chasing her down the corridor. She ignored it, her steps quickening.
Her own chamber waited, small but bright, her things already laid out. The satchel she had carried for years now sat open on the bed, half-packed with herbs and linens, the tools of her trade. She had work ahead of her.
Castle Keith. The name rang heavy in her chest, though she had not yet spoken it aloud. Tomorrow, she would ride there, summoned for her skill, though the details had been scarce. She knew only this: their healer had died a long time ago, their laird had called, and she was needed.
The hinges creaked softly.
Vivienne glanced up, startled, to find Odette standing in the doorway of her chamber. The morning light poured around her like a halo, catching in the pale gold of her hair, the steel of her gaze. Vivienne’s chest pinched at the sight. Her stepsister had changed so much since those days in Beaumont’s halls. She was no longer the girl Vivienne had mocked, nor the young woman their mother had scorned. She was Odette Galbraith now, laird’s wife, her presence sharp and sure, her smile a blade and a balm all at once.
And yet when she crossed the threshold, it was with quiet steps, the hem of her gown trailing through the rushes as she tilted her head. “What was all that ruckus? I could hear the laughter halfway down the passage.”
Vivienne turned back to the satchel, tucking a roll of linen into its side. “Just silly boys. They’ve naught better tae dae than make fools o’ themselves.”
Odette leaned lightly against the doorframe, her brows arched, her smile tugging faint. “Silly or nae, that one looked fair handsome tae me. Broad shoulders, clear eyes. Ye truly have nay interest?”
Vivienne let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “Odette. If Gregory hears ye say such a thing, he’ll send the poor lad straight tae the border and nae let him back inside the walls.”
Odette’s laugh followed, warm and amused. “Gregory would dae naeysuch thing. He kens well enough where me heart lies. I’m saying the boy might be good fer ye, Vivienne, nae fer me.”
Vivienne paused, her fingers smoothing over a jar of honey before slipping it into her bag. Her lips curved faintly. “Perhaps he’ll be good fer someone, one day. But it will nae be me. Me heart is nae so easily swayed by a clumsy smile and a bandaged chest.”
Odette’s eyes softened, her head tipping as she studied her. “Then what daes sway it? Is it the work that drives ye so hard? Ye never rest, Vivienne. Ye live as though there is nay tomorrow, as if ye’ve something left tae prove with every stitch and every poultice.”
The words hit their mark. Vivienne stilled, her back straightening, her hands frozen over the satchel strap. For a moment, shame threatened to rise again, that old weight she had carried since the day she had first seen Odette stand tall as Gregory’s wife. But she crushed it, forcing her voice steady, her chin lifted.
“This is nae penance, Odette. I long since accepted that naething I dae will make up fer what I was. I cannae change the girl who mocked ye, who obeyed me maither’s cruelty. But I found something that is mine, something that mends instead o’ destroys. Healing isnae about proving meself. It’s about… purpose.”
Her throat tightened, but she pushed through it. “When I set a bone, when I keep fever from stealing a child, when I bind a wound that might have festered—I feel whole. I will nae turn from that. Nae even fer comfort or ease.”
Odette was quiet a long moment, her eyes searching Vivienne’s face. Then she stepped inside, the door closing softly behind her. “Dae that mean ye are set on this? Leaving Galbraith lands, heading tae Keith with nay more than a summons and a name? Ye dinnae even ken what awaits ye there.”
Vivienne tied the strap of her satchel tight, her voice firm. “Aye. I am set. Whatever awaits, I will meet it as I am now, nae as I was.”
Odette’s lips parted, as though she might argue, but she only sighed, her shoulders lowering with quiet resignation. She crossed the chamber, her hand reaching for Vivienne’s. “Then I’ll nae try tae stop ye. But I’ll miss ye, sister.”
The word struck like an arrow. Sister. It was no longer rival or stranger, but the bond she had always longed for. Vivienne’s throat closed as she turned, clasping Odette’s hand tight. For once she let the softness show, let the truth rise past the no-nonsense exterior she had always clung to.
“I’ll miss ye too,” she whispered.
Odette drew her into an embrace, warm and steady, her hand stroking her hair the way no one had since they were children. Vivienne clung to her, her chest aching with a strange mix of grief and hope. They had lost so much, both of them, but they had found more too. Odette had found love. Vivienne had found purpose. They had found each other. Perhaps that was enough.
When they drew apart, Odette’s eyes shone, but her smile was sure. “Go then. Tae Keith. And remember—nay matter what clan ye serve, ye are still me sister. And ye will always have a place here.”
Vivienne nodded, her grip on the satchel firm. “Aye. And ye’ll always have me.”
She turned toward the door then, her steps light though her chest was heavy. Tomorrow she would ride for Keith, for a land she had never seen, for a future she could not yet imagine. But for the first time in her life, she would do it as herself. As a healer.
And that, she thought, was enough.
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
Near the Borders of Clan Keith, 1718
The road narrowed as it curved east, hemmed in on both sides by low stone walls and bramble-thick hedges.
Vivienne adjusted the shawl at her shoulders, her fingers curling into the soft wool with a grip that bordered on reverence. It had belonged to her mother once.
Sheona.
Not just a name, but a presence that clung like perfume to every room she’d ever walked into—floral, cloying, impossible to breathe through. Sheona, who had taught her how to speak softly in rooms that did not want to hear her. Who had carved obedience into her with every glance, every correction, every whispered warning dressed up as care. The woman who had smiled with ice in her teeth and called it motherly love.
The shawl had outlasted her.
Sheona had left behind no letters, only this: a shawl worn threadbare at the edges, and a hundred small cruelties Vivienne had never quite known how to name.
And yet still, she wore it, because leaving it behind felt like abandoning something that had shaped her too deeply to forget. A reminder of the woman her mother had tried to make her, and the vow she had made never to become that woman again. A weight, yes, but ballast all the same. Something to remind her of where she came from, and that there was no turning back, even as the road beneath her shifted and the path ahead stretched into places she could not yet imagine.
She wrapped it tighter around her shoulders, as if it might hold her together.
The horse beneath her shifted, hooves striking uneven ground, and one of the Galbraith guards glanced over his shoulder. “All well, mistress?”
Vivienne blinked. The question had to be repeated in her mind before she could answer. “Aye. Just tired.”
He gave a nod and turned back around. Conversation between the men had long since dulled to murmurs of travel talk, idle and meaningless. She let them fade.
Her thoughts were louder.
There were four guards, whom she had not met before. Not properly at least. Laird Gregory Galbraith had chosen them himself, after she’d insisted she didn’t need an escort at all. After everything that had passed between her and Gregory and Odette, the fact they now saw her as family, someone worth protecting, was no small thing.
They didn’t know that she hadn’t slept the night before. That she’d stood in her chambers repacking the same satchel three times over, hands shaking from something that was not fear, but not quite bravery either. That Odette had stood in the doorway, arms crossed, and half amused, asking if she’d truly lost her mind.
“Ye’re nae even sure what ye’re walking intae,” Odette, her step-sister had said, voice low, a smile playing behind the warning.
Odette had once been her adversary, the bitterness between them sown by Sheona’s careful hand. But that had changed—after Odette’s marriage to Laird Galbraith, after Vivienne’s quiet repentance. Now, she was her closest kin. Her voice was low, familiar, a smile playing behind the warning.
Odette, who had once been the outsider in their home and Vivienne, who had worn cruelty like a borrowed dress, thinking it the only way to belong. They had both changed. War had seen to that. Love, too.
Vivienne had only smiled. “That’s never stopped either o’ us.”
And that was true. Once.
But now, riding across borders toward a clan she’d never met, summoned by a man known only through whispered titles and unsigned letters, the uncertainty felt like a living thing, coiled in her belly. It slithered up her spine when she let her guard down, gnawed at her resolve.
She shifted again, the leather saddle creaking. The wind carried no birdsong here. Just the rustle of unseen branches and the faint echo of hooves behind them.
The letter had said very little.
“Our healers is gone. The sick pile faster than we can bury them. I’ve heard ye have a gift. Come, then. Show me how good ye truly are. Come before the season turns. Enter by the western border, if ye value yer life. — G.K.”
Just the rough initials and the weight of expectation.
Vivienne had read it a dozen times. She’d turned the parchment over in her hands, trying to divine something between the lines. Something more than need. Something more than desperation. Because surely no laird—no Beast, as they called him—would send for a stranger unless he’d run out of every other option.
The name alone made her stomach twist.
The Beast o’ Keith.
It had sounded like a jest, the first time she’d heard it. But Gregory hadn’t been laughing. He’d said the man hadn’t left the battlefield in five winters. That he refused court, sent no emissaries, dined alone. That he wore armor even in his own hall. Slept in a chair because no bed could hold the weight of his rage.
“Nay woman’s ever looked at him without flinchin’,” Gregory had muttered, almost to himself, eyes dark. “And I’d rather send ye intae the sea than intae Keith lands.”
And now, Vivienne Beaumont, once the girl who’d stood behind her mother’s shoulder like a shadow, now the healer who walked with poultices alone, was meant to cross into his lands and help.
She swallowed.
She had so many questions.
Why me? Why now? Why the west border? Why nay more information? Why hadnae he sent someone?
But of course, she already knew the answer. Because he was the kind of man who did not ask. He commanded. Even his letter had felt that way. Not curt, exactly. But final. Like the paper itself would not suffer to be questioned.
Her horse slowed as the path thinned, and one of the guards raised a hand. “Mistress,” he called softly, pointing. “There.”
She looked up.
A stretch of rock, then a rise of wooded ridge, and just beyond it, the faint line of another road, bisecting their path like a scar. And further still there was smoke, the kind that meant people, and a fire burning just out of sight.
“Keith border,” the guard said. “We’ll make camp just shy o’ it.”
Vivienne nodded.
They dismounted near a bend in the path where the trees grew close. The men moved with efficiency, one gathering wood, another checking the horses. She took her satchel and stepped to the edge of the camp, beyond the fire ring, beyond the reach of their chatter.
One of the younger guards knelt beside her, holding out a piece of oatcake wrapped in linen. “Mistress,” he offered, his voice careful, unsure. “Ye should eat something. It’s a long ride still.”
Vivienne blinked at the bread. Her fingers closed around it automatically, more out of habit than hunger. “Thank ye,” she murmured.
He lingered a moment. She glanced up briefly and nodded. After a pause, he rose and returned to the others.
The bread sat in her lap, untouched. Instead, her hands returned to the flask. She loosened her grip, noting the ache in her knuckles with clinical detachment. Her mind, too, felt taut and overdrawn, stretched thin by the unfamiliar.
She sat cross-legged with her back against the tree, the flask cradled between her palms. Around her, the woods shifted and whispered. Her eyes scanned the shadows for understanding. What kind of land bred a laird like Gavin Keith? What kind of war left so few to tend the wounded?
She reached for the shawl again, fingers curling tight at the collarbone.
Ballast, ye’re nae that lass anymore, who flinched. Nae the girl who stayed silent tae survive.
But still, when a branch cracked somewhere beyond the firelight, she flinched.
The guard nearest her heard it too. His hand dropped to the hilt of his blade. “Stay here,” he said low, a single glance her way before he moved toward the sound.
Vivienne rose slowly, knees stiff. She strained to listen. Just the wind, maybe. Just an animal in the brush. And then—
A thunk.
The sickening sound of blade striking bone. A grunt. Another.
And then the firelight exploded in motion. Figures burst through the trees in every direction, steel flashing, shouts rising like thunder. A blur of blue and green tartan swept across the camp, and Vivienne stumbled backward in time to see one of her guards fall, his throat opened clean.
“Run!” someone roared.
Her feet moved before her mind did. She turned, half-tripping on a root, grabbing her skirts as she sprinted into the darkness. The woods closed in fast. Branches clawed at her hair. The ground sloped without warning, and she went tumbling, shoulder crashing into a rock, hands scraping raw against the dirt.
Behind her, men shouted, voices rough and urgent overlapping in a chaos she couldn’t untangle. Steel clanged against steel; each strike sharp enough to split the air. A horse screamed, high, human-like, and the sound cracked something inside her.
Vivienne scrambled to her feet. Her breath came ragged and fast, a fluttering thing that wouldn’t settle in her chest. Her legs buckled beneath her for a moment, stiff from the cold and the shock, but she forced them forward, running as fast as she could. Branches tore at her sleeves, at her hair, her skirts catching on brambles as she stumbled through the thick underbrush. Her heart thundered in her ears, louder than the noise behind her, louder than the wind that cut across the ridge.
Keith. Keith was north. Nay—west. Nay—the river was east, she should’ve—should’ve crossed it at the bend—
Panic surged, directionless and raw.
The ground sloped, then dipped without warning, and she slid down a patch of wet earth, her boots skidding, knees giving. She hit a tree hard, shoulder-first, and kept going, pain lancing down her side. Her hand clutched at the shawl as if it might anchor her, but it slipped loose, useless against the chaos.
Then, without warning, something snatched her.
A hand closed around her wrist like a snare, jerking her backwards with such force her body spun. Her ankle twisted, her mouth opened—
She screamed.
But the sound was muffled almost instantly by another hand, rough and calloused, slamming over her mouth. She tried to bite, tried to wrench away, but her limbs moved too slow, her thoughts too scattered.
“Hold still,” a voice growled at her ear, the words hot and close. “Stop fighting.”
She writhed anyway, teeth sinking into leather, but the man only hissed and twisted her arm until pain spiked white-hot through her elbow.
“Damn healer,” he muttered. “We heard they were sendin’ one from Galbraith. Should’ve kent it’d be ye. Ye’ve nay place in this.”
More men emerged from the shadows, all dressed in the same muted grey plaids, mud-caked boots, teeth bared like wolves. Her other guards… Where were they? Were they dead?
She couldn’t breathe.
One man stepped closer, squinting down at her. The man crouched in front of her, eyes gleaming in the half-dark. His face was lean, his hair tied back in a crude knot. There was blood on his sleeve—someone else’s. He looked at her like she was something caged. Not dangerous. Just… contained.
“So,” he said, voice low and mocking, “this is the lass from Galbraith.”
Vivienne blinked. Her elbow throbbed from where she’d fallen. Her vision swam.
He tilted his head. “What’s yer name, then? Dinnae think I’ve seen ye at court.”
Vivienne met his gaze, steady despite the tension in her spine. “Vivienne Beaumont,” she said. “And I’ve nay business at court. I go where I’m needed.”
Another man stepped closer, broader, with a scar running down his brow. “That’s her. The healer. The one Galbraith sent.”
The first man smiled. “Healer, is it? Thought ye’d be older.”
Vivienne forced a breath through her teeth. “I’m nae here fer Galbraith,” she said, voice hoarse. “He didnae send me.”
“Did ye hear that?” the man drawled, glancing back at the others. “Just wandering intae Keith lands with a pouch full o’ tinctures, is she?”
A few of the men laughed.
Vivienne lifted her chin. “I was summoned. By the laird o’ Clan Keith. I was told they needed healing. That’s what I came tae dae.”
The man crouching grinned wider now. “And ye just answered, did ye? Like a good wee dove?”
One of the younger men shifted behind him. “General, Sir—she daesnae look like a threat.”
“Daesnae look like a threat?” the general echoed, not taking his eyes off her. “Ye think that’s how war works, lad? Ye think the ones who patch the wounds dinnae change the fight?” He stood slowly. “She’s a Galbraith. And she’s meant fer Keith. That makes her useful. And dangerous.”
“Aye, general,” the younger man bowed his head.
Vivienne’s hands clenched in her lap, knuckles white. “I’m nae a danger,” she said again. “I dinnae fight.”
“Nay,” the general said. “Ye keep others from dying. Which is worse.”
She flinched as he stepped closer, voice dropping to something colder.
“Ye’re here tae help, girl.”
Then he turned to the others. “Take her. Strip her o’ anything sharp. We move before night thickens. If Keith sent fer her, let’s see how far they’ll chase.”
He motioned, and two of the men grabbed her arms.
“Nay—please—” She fought them, legs kicking, feet slipping in the loam. Her satchel tore from her shoulder. She saw it fall, herbs spilling like leaves across the ground.
A hand struck her across the face.
“Quiet,” the general said.
Her ears rang. Her vision swam.
They dragged her through the trees, moving fast, too fast. Her boots caught on roots. Her arms ached. She tried to count her breaths. In. Two. Three. Out. Two. Three. But the numbers blurred.
Her mouth tasted of iron.
“Take her past the ridge. We’ll cut east from there. If Keith wants tae get healers, let them come fetch her.”
The general again. “Aye. Let’s see if their Beast comes fer her.”
Chapter Two
The forest floor blurred beneath her, mud and moss and root twisting into one shapeless dark mass. A light rain fell through the canopy, soaking into her hair, her clothes, the raw places on her skin.
Her shoulder throbbed from where she’d hit it and her lip stung where the man had struck her. Her feet barely skimmed the ground as the men dragged her deeper into the trees, each step jarring something loose inside her chest.
She was cold. She was dizzy. She was bleeding. And she could not stop shaking.
Their hands were iron on her arms. Her skirts tangled around her knees. Her mother’s shawl was gone. Somewhere back near the fire, in the dirt, torn loose when they pulled her down. It felt like her body had been torn loose, too. She could feel it fraying at the edges. Unraveling.
“Walk faster,” one of them snapped, yanking her forward by the arm.
“She’s limping,” another muttered. “Leg’s bleeding. She fell hard back there.”
“She’ll manage,” came the reply, flat and cold, making her shiver. “She’s a Galbraith. They’re always tougher than they look.”
Vivienne’s breath hitched. She hadn’t realized how shallow it had become until it caught, jagged, in her chest. Her ribs ached and her lips were dry. Blood clung to the inside of her mouth, metallic and thick, and her vision kept tilting every few steps.
She didn’t know how far they’d come. Couldn’t track direction anymore. North and south had blurred. The forest closed in like a hand tightening its fist. She didn’t know if her guards still lived or if the laird even knew she was gone. Keith. I need tae get tae Keith. I need tae—
She moved before she had time to question herself.
Her body twisted hard, dragging her feet sideways, and yanked her arm back with everything she had. The shock of resistance tore through her shoulder, but she didn’t stop. She wrenched free and bolted left, toward the thickets.
It worked… for half a breath. The grip on her right arm slipped. Her sleeve tore. She turned fast, lungs heaving, skirts catching on thorns. But the woods were uneven, wild. Her boot caught on a root hidden beneath the leaves, and suddenly the ground was gone.
She fell hard.
Her body hit the slope like a dropped stone. Her hands landed on sharp rock, skin splitting open on impact. Her elbow smashed into something solid, and pain screamed up her arm. Her chin struck moss. She rolled once, twice, and then lay still, winded, mouth full of dirt and the dull, sick tang of blood.
The world pulsed around her, the trees above spinning as she tasted copper on her tongue and heard footsteps closing in. Still, she tried to crawl, but they were on her again within seconds.
“Let go o’ me!” she cried, voice cracking. “Let go, let go—”
Another strike across her cheek silenced her. Pain lit up behind her eyes and the world blurred.
“Hold her,” the man barked. “We’re almost tae the ridge.”
Vivienne could barely hear him as blood roared in her ears. Her limbs felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. And then—
A sound. A low whistle. The men froze.
“Someone’s coming,” one of the men hissed.
The general turned, eyes narrowing. “Get her behind cover. Now.”
They dragged her toward a fallen tree, but it was too late.
The woods exploded. Steel screamed against steel. Horses reared. Shadows broke through the underbrush, figures in dark green and black tartan, moving like thunderclouds.
The first blade missed her by inches, driving instead into the chest of the man holding her left arm. He went down in a howl of blood and disbelief.
A second man fell near the ridge, tackled by a Keith warrior in a bear-like charge. The two of them crashed into the underbrush, weapons slashing wild.
She felt hands leave her and felt her body hit the earth. She curled instinctively, arms covering her head, the noise rising around her into something unbearable. She could hear the general yelling, commands or curses, she couldn’t tell.
And then, through the chaos, she saw him.
He didn’t come riding like the others, shouting or swarming. He came alone and moved through the melee with lethal precision, every strike efficient, brutal. His blade was long, and it did not pause. It caught the torchlight as it moved, silver and clean, like a line drawn through the dark.
Vivienne’s breath snagged.
He wasn’t armored like the rest. No visible sigil. No crest. Just a high leather guard strapped tight around his neck, like a collar too purposeful to be for vanity. His long hair was unbound, wet with sweat and rain, clinging to his jaw, his brow, the curve where cheek met temple.
And still, he looked untouchable.
But it was more than that. It was the way he moved. Not just strength. Not just skill. Presence. Like the earth itself made way for him. His silence rang louder than any war cry.
Vivienne couldn’t look away.
She knew she should run, should hide, but something in her stilled. Her heartbeat, ragged and wild moments ago, slowed into something heavier, as if her body recognized him before her mind did.
He looked carved from the storm itself. Violent, rain-slicked, beautiful. And terrifying. And she did not know why, but for one brief, breathless second, she wondered what it would feel like to be seen by a man like that. To be held in the eye of that silence. To be claimed by it.
Then the general shouted, and the moment shattered.
Vivienne tried to crawl back, away, but her limbs wouldn’t move fast enough. Her palms slid on moss. Her head swam. She heard their swords clash before she saw it.
The general swung first, wide and brutal, a fury-fueled arc.
The man parried easily, stepping in close. The second clash came louder, and then the two men locked blades, face to face.
Vivienne couldn’t look away.
The general fought with anger. She’d seen men like that before, too reckless to be clever. But this man moved with a cold, controlled violence, not rushed or enraged, he was trained for this. He broke the lock and sent the general reeling with a strike to the side of the knee. Then he stepped in and slammed the hilt of his sword into the general’s jaw.
He fell, face down.
The silence that followed felt unnatural, too quiet for all that had just passed. Vivienne could only watch as the man turned toward her, his face clean of blood, his eyes—grey, or perhaps silver—locking onto hers. He didn’t speak, just looked, and in that silence thick with smoke, blood, and something she couldn’t name yet, Vivienne froze.
She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Couldn’t read a thing behind those strange, silver eyes. He looked half-man, half-shadow. And in that moment, she didn’t know if he had come to help her or to claim her. Didn’t know if he would offer her his hand or take her by the throat. He could be savior or punishment.
All she knew was that he saw her.
She didn’t know what he was yet, only that no one that precise, that silent, could be safe.
The morning in Caorann began the way most of them did—wet stone underfoot, smoke curling from the hearth fires in slow ribbons, and the sharp scent of peat mingling with lavender soap in the corridor that led from the cloister to the chapel. The shutters were still drawn, but a faint light had begun to edge towards the windowsills, soft and grey with mist. Somewhere deeper in the keep, a bell tolled once, then fell quiet.
Mairead liked the silence before morning prayers. She liked the hush of it, the way the air seemed to still just long enough for her to gather her thoughts, to breathe in something deeper than silence. A pause, she liked to call it. The kind the soul needed to remember itself. It was in those moments that she felt closest to what she hoped God saw in her—not pious or perfect, but willing. Still learning.
She had meant to go to the chapel early that day. To light a candle and give thanks for something she couldn’t name. But her steps slowed in the corridor.
“Mairead.”
She turned.
Sister Agnes stood at the far end of the passage, her voice low but firm. The older woman’s hands were folded in front of her habit, her shoulders square, her face unreadable—but not unkind.
“There’s been word from Glen Lyon.”
The name stopped her breath.
“Fer the church?” Her voice cracked on the last word.
Sister Agnes gave a single nod. “It’s still in ruin. They’ve begun clearin’ the wreckage. But they’ve asked fer help. Fer someone skilled in scripture. In healin’. Tae guide.”
She didn’t say what else she meant. Didn’t say the other word that hung heavy in the air between them: conversion.
Mairead’s fingers curled against her palms. The corridor was warm from the hearths below, but her hands had gone cold.
“Ye’re sendin’ me,” she said.
It wasn’t a question.
The nun’s gaze softened just slightly, a flicker of something like approval ghosting behind her eyes. “Aye. If ye accept. Ye’d be part o’ the rebuildin’ effort. There’s still unrest, but the laird himself has allowed it. A pagan, aye—but one who daesnae seek war.”
The stone wall pressed cool against Mairead’s back. She hadn’t realized she’d moved until the roughness caught her shoulder blades. A strange flutter moved behind her ribs. A sense of being… shifted. As though something in her life had turned, just slightly, without her having touched it.
“And when I return?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
Sister Agnes took a step closer. Her voice lowered, but it was no less certain. “Then ye will be ready.”
Mairead’s breath left her all at once.
Ready.
To take the veil. To give herself wholly. To leave behind the questions, the wondering. To put on the habit and call it enough. To belong.
Her throat tightened, and it took her a moment to nod. “Thank ye,” she said, her voice shaking. “I dinnae deserve such trust.”
“Ye’ve earned it,” the nun said simply. “The journey begins within the week. Ye’ll go with a few others. I believe Sister Mòrag is preparin’ provisions already.”
Mairead barely heard the last part. She was still holding onto those words.
Ye’ve earned it.
She had waited her whole life to hear that. And yet it didn’t settle in her chest the way she thought it would. It trembled there instead. Restless. A little too alive.
She dipped her head in reverence. “I’ll find Kirsteen. She should hear it from me.”
Sister Agnes nodded once. “See that ye dae.”
The corridor emptied behind her as she turned and walked back the way she came. Her steps were faster now. Lighter. But her breath didn’t come easy.
She was going to Glen Lyon, the pagan stronghold. To the glen where men still traced runes in the dirt and left offerings for trees. Where they danced on solstice nights and drank from carved horns and didn’t know the shape of a rosary bead.
And yet, God had opened the door, and she was walking through it.
She turned, her robes sweeping softly behind her. Mairead stood frozen a moment longer, her hands still trembling slightly. Then she turned and hurried toward the courtyard.
Kirsteen.
She found her in the herb garden, kneeling beside a row of wild mint, her hair pulled back in a rough braid. She looked up as Mairead approached.
“Ye look like a woman wi’ news,” Kirsteen said, squinting into the sun.
“They’re sendin’ me,” Mairead said breathlessly. “Tae Glen Lyon.”
Kirsteen blinked, then grinned. “About time.”
Mairead laughed. “I’m tae help rebuild the chapel. When I return—”
“Ye take yer vows.”
“Aye.”
Kirsteen stood and wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, I suppose we’d better start packin’. They’ll want us off before the week’s end.”
Mairead frowned. “Us?”
Kirsteen tilted her head. “Didnae they tell ye? I’m goin’ wi’ ye.”
The breath whooshed out of Mairead’s lungs. “Ye’re what?”
“I was requested. Fer healin’. Fer… guidin’.”
Mairead stared at her. Then a small smile broke across her face. “We’re goin’ taegether.”
Kirsteen’s grin widened. “Glen Lyon willnae ken what’s comin’.” Then she paused, as if just remembering. “Oh—Mairead, the laird’s asked tae speak wi’ ye.”
Mairead stilled. “The laird asked fer me?”
“One o’ the guards told me. Said John wanted tae see ye before we left.”
Her stomach twisted. “Why?”
Kirsteen shrugged. “I dinnae ken. But if he daes, ye’d best go.”
They stood there for a moment longer, sunlight pooling at their feet, the scent of mint and wild thyme in the air between them. And for the first time in a long time, Mairead felt something like hope.
Kirsteen bumped her shoulder lightly. “Ye’d best go then, before he sends someone tae drag ye by the wrist.”
Mairead laughed. “Aye. Though I’m nae sure what he could want wi’ me.”
Kirsteen nudged her gently again. “Go on, then. I’ll meet ye back in the dormitory. We’ve packin’ tae dae.”
Mairead hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll be quick.”
“Famous last words,” Kirsteen muttered, but her smile didn’t fade.
Mairead turned toward the staircase and took the stairs with careful steps, her skirts gathered in one hand, the other brushing lightly along the cool stone wall. She passed two novices in the corridor below, murmuring good morning, and they bowed their heads in return, though their eyes followed her longer than they should have. No one had said it aloud, but it was clear enough that word had already traveled. That she was to go, that she had been chosen.
Her heart beat faster at the thought.
She reached the laird’s chamber and paused, smoothing the front of her gown, then knocked twice.
The door opened, and there he was, Laird John of Caorann. His hand braced against the wood, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then it softened, almost too quickly.
“Sister Mairead,” he said, stepping aside. “Come in.”
The room was warm, filled with the scent of old wood and ink. She hesitated only a breath, then entered, folding her hands before her.
“I was told ye wished tae see me.”
John’s gaze didn’t leave her. He motioned to a chair near the hearth. “Please. Sit.”
She did, perching lightly on the edge, while he crossed the room to pour water into a cup and brought it to her.
“They’ve accepted,” he said quietly. “Glen Lyon. The laird will allow the missionaries tae assist with the rebuilding o’ the chapel.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup. “Aye. Sister Agnes just told me.”
He studied her. “And ye’ve agreed?”
“I have.”
His jaw tensed. Only slightly, but she saw it. “Sister… ye dinnae need tae go.”
Her brow furrowed. “I dae. It’s part o’ me path. I’ve prayed on it.”
“There are others,” he said. “Others who could take yer place.”
“I was chosen.”
He stepped closer. “By a nun. Nae by God.”
She blinked. “That’s—me laird, why would ye say that?”
He sighed, turning away for a moment before facing her again. “Because I worry. About what ye’ll face there. They’re pagans still. Heathens, some o’ them. And their laird—he’s nae a man ye should trust.”
Mairead set the cup down, her fingers now folded tightly in her lap. “I’ve been called tae serve, me laird. Ye ken what this means tae me. It’s the final step before me vows.”
He was quiet a long moment. Then: “What if ye didnae take them?”
She stared at him. “What?”
“What if ye stayed?” His voice dropped lower. “Ye could dae good here, Mairead. Teach. Heal. Live.”
She rose from the chair. “But I want tae take them.”
“Because it’s all ye’ve ever kent,” he said, stepping toward her. “Because ye think it’s the only way tae be pure. But ye are already—ye shine wi’ a light that has naethin’ tae dae wi’ vows or veils.”
Her breath caught. “I dinnae understand.”
He smiled, gently this time. And stepped closer. “Ye dinnae have tae. Just listen.”
“I… I must go,” she said, shaking her head. “This is me chance tae prove I’m ready.”
“Prove tae who?” he asked. “God? Or them?”
She looked up at him. “Both.”
A beat passed. Then he reached out and cupped her cheek in one hand.
It startled her.
The warmth of his palm was gentle. His eyes were soft, but she didn’t want to return their stare, so she stilled.
“I only want what’s best fer ye,” he said. “I’ve watched ye grow from a frightened girl tae somethin’ more. Somethin’ rare. And if I could spare ye pain…”
She shook her head. “I dinnae need sparin’. I need direction. I’ve prayed fer it—and now I have it.”
His thumb brushed against her cheekbone. She flushed.
She told herself it was only gratitude, kindness. He was a man of God. He cared for her soul, nothing more.
He stepped back then, slowly, and smiled again. “Then go,” he said. “And may the Lord walk beside ye.”
She nodded, flustered, and moved toward the door.
And as she slipped out into the corridor, her heart pounding and her thoughts tangled, she told herself that she had misunderstood.
That it had been blessing, not longing, in his touch.
That she was going to Glen Lyon for God.
She didn’t look back. Just hurried down the stairs and into the morning light, where the road awaited and the sky was wide and clean and full of the unknown.
And somewhere ahead of her, a church had burned to ash and waited to be raised from ruin. And Mairead—blessed, chosen, still innocent of the things she could not see—began to pack.
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
1211, Glen Lyon
The pot steamed steadily, thick with barley, onions, and softened carrots. Mairead stirred it with quiet focus. Her wimple clung damply to her brow beneath the sun, which had risen warmer than expected.
A line of villagers passed her table, and she met each with a small smile, a warm bowl, and a soft blessing.
“May the Lord reward yer labor,” she said to a man with blistered hands. He hesitated, then nodded, accepting the food like it was something more than nourishment.
Behind her, the church ruins breathed with quiet effort. Just weeks ago, it had been set ablaze, torched in the night by pagan raiders who saw its presence in Glen Lyon as a threat. The roof had collapsed in places, and the stone walls still bore smoke stains like bruises. But this space, the old nave, had been chosen for the soup line on purpose. The villagers rebuilding it had insisted: healing had to start here, where the wound was deepest.
Mairead and the others had come from Caorann with the Church’s blessing—missionaries, laborers, a few healers. Their task was simple: help rebuild the glen and bring the Light of God to those who still walked in shadow.
Mairead and the other missionaries from Caorann were working to rebuild it stone by stone, determined to restore what had been lost. She had come with them not just as a helper, but as a woman preparing to take her final vows.
That was to be her last mission before she finally joined the convent. It was a test of faith, although she had never questioned her calling. Her heart had long since settled. All she longed for was this work and service to the Lord. Her faith was not decoration. It lived in her hands.
Mairead handed another bowl to a boy who looked barely seventeen. He made the sign of the cross before stepping away. She echoed the motion, lips moving in silent prayer.
One bowl. Then another. The rhythm steadied her.
The pot was half-empty when a voice disrupted the flow.
“Sister Mairead?” The voice, girlish and hesitant, broke gently across the murmur of voices.
Mairead turned to find Kirsteen lingering at the edge of the commotion, arms folded tightly, curls escaping her veil in wild coils. Her cheeks were pink, her posture tense.
“May I speak with ye? Just a moment.”
Mairead glanced toward Brother Tomaigh. “Will ye take over fer a moment?”
He gave a silent nod, already stepping forward. His large hands closed over the ladle’s handle as she released it. The soup sloshed slightly under the shift.
She offered a small nod in thanks. As he rolled up his sleeves and took position behind the pot, Mairead wiped her palms on her apron and turned toward the girl, by the edge of the ruined sanctuary, where light filtered through the fractured beams and wind slipped through the stone gaps, carrying the scent of damp moss and char.
Kirsteen was uncharacteristically silent, fidgeting with her sleeve as though trying to keep her thoughts from spilling.
“Ye’ve been awfully quiet,” Mairead said gently, letting a hint of mischief into her voice. “Must be spendin’ too much time with me.”
Kirsteen cast her a sidelong glance, lips twitching. “Only waitin’ tae see ye break, that’s all.”
“Break?” Mairead echoed, amused.
“Aye,” she said, grinning as she tucked a curl behind her ear. “Ye’ve been keepin’ something tae yerself since we left Caorann. And I think I ken what it is.”
Mairead raised a brow. “Dae ye now?”
Kirsteen leaned closer, lowering her voice like they were sharing a confession. “He spoke tae ye, didnae he? Laird Caorann. Before we left.”
Mairead’s lips pressed into a line. “He did.”
Kirsteen straightened with a triumphant noise. “Ha! I kent it. And what did the mighty Laird have tae say tae ye?”
Mairead lowered her voice, hands folding in her lap. “He asked me nae tae come.” From beyond the ruined wall, the muffled sounds of ladles and quiet chatter drifted through the morning air.
Kirsteen blinked. “He did what? Truly?”
“He said Glen Lyon was dangerous. That I ought tae stay behind.”
Kirsteen gave an exaggerated gasp. “Did he give the same warning tae Braither Malcolm? Or Sister Agnes?”
Mairead shook her head, “Nay.”
Kirsteen made a face. “Oh aye, just ye. How very impartial o’ him.”
“He was worried.” She shrugged, her gaze drifting toward the mist-soft hills beyond the church wall—or what was left of it.
“Oh, I’m sure. Concerned fer the mission, was he?” she teased, nudging Mairead with her elbow. “Or just fer the bonnie postulant with the green eyes?”
Mairead tried to keep her voice even. “He was kind.”
Kirsteen let out a soft laugh. “That man watches ye like a hawk watches a rabbit. A sanctified, scripture-quoting rabbit.”
Mairead blinked, then gave a short, unexpected laugh. “That’s awful.”
“But accurate.” Kirsteen nudged her knee with her own, biting back a grin. “Dinnae tell me ye’ve nae noticed. Half the keep saw it before ye did.”
For a breath, Mairead didn’t answer. The memory flickered. The way Laird Caorann had looked at her that morning wasn’t like a laird giving orders, but like a man searching for something. She’d told herself it was nothing.
“There’s naething tae notice,” Mairead said, though her tone softened. “He respects me devotion. That’s all.”
“Uh-huh.” Kirsteen leaned forward, eyes dancing. “And when he leaned in and told ye nae tae come, did he happen tae hold yer hand? Look real sorrowful, like he was picturing ye walkin’ intae the mist, never tae return?”
“Kirsteen,” Mairead said sharply, though heat rose to her cheeks.
“I’m simply asking!” she said, laughing as she threw up her hands in mock innocence. “Saints preserve me, ye act like I suggested marriage.”
Mairead gave her a long look, but it lacked real force. “He meant well.”
Kirsteen shook her head, more affectionate than disapproving. “Ye’ve such a talent fer explainin’ away things that make the rest o’ us blush.”
“There’s naething tae blush about.”
Kirsteen shifted slightly, her voice quieter now. “What if he asked ye tae stay. Promised comfort, safety… maybe even love.”
Mairead looked down at her hands, resting still in her lap. “I would tell him nay.”
“That easy?”
“Aye. I dinnae want it.”
“Ye’ve always been like that,” Kirsteen said finally. “Certain. Like ye were carved out o’ something steadier than the rest o’ us.”
Mairead smiled faintly. “And ye? What are ye carved from?”
Kirsteen grinned. “Bits o’ bark and nonsense. But I stick close tae ye. Maybe some o’ yer holiness will rub on me.”
“Unlikely,” Mairead murmured, but her smile deepened.
“I still think he fancies ye.”
Mairead sighed, then nudged her playfully. “And I still think ye talk too much.”
“That’s what makes me charming.”
“Nay, that’s what makes ye exhausting.”
“But ye’d be too lonely without me.”
Mairead didn’t argue. Instead, she reached out and briefly placed a hand over Kirsteen’s. “I would.”
Kirsteen went still, then gave a quick smile. It was the kind that tried to hide something tender. “Well. Then I’ll keep botherin’ ye. Just tae make sure.”
They stood together in that fragile light, a moment held between ruin and renewal. And then—
A scream. A sharp, human, terrifying scream.
Mairead froze, her spine snapping straight as a cry sliced through the air.
Kirsteen whirled beside her, curls whipping as she scanned the space, eyes wide with raw instinct. Another shout followed, closer now. Then a third, shriller. The sound of feet pounding the earth grew louder, no rhythm, only panic. The low hum of the people surrounding them fractured like glass.
Mairead turned sharply, skirts twisting at her ankles. Kirsteen’s hand found her forearm, clinging for one startled second as they both froze.
Through the haze of afternoon light, thick with drifting ash, men rushed out of the half-constructed church. Through the ruined doorway, shadowed figures surged forward in a blur of limbs and flame. One carried a torch. Another swung something metal. Fire caught fast on the edge of thatch, rising greedy and orange. One raised a rusty axe, another bore a flaming brand above his head as if to summon judgment himself.
The builders dropped their tools. Soup spilled across the packed earth in a hiss of broth and smoke.
Those weren’t looters. They came with purpose, not chaos for its own sake. Their faces were half-painted in streaks of ash and ochre, symbols carved into their bare arms.
Pagan marks.
Mairead recognized them, though she’d never seen them worn so boldly. This wasn’t hunger or protest. It was hatred. Vengeance. The church was rising from its ashes, and now they meant to return it to dust. She saw one of them glance her way—eyes wild, mouth twisted—and felt it in her bones. She wasn’t just a woman in their path. She was the reason they’d come. She and the others, who threatened their pagan beliefs.
Mairead’s fingers tightened around Kirsteen’s sleeve, her breath sharp. “Run,” she said with finality, as if the choice had already been made for both of them, and then she ran.
There was no thought to it, no calculation, no direction. Her body surged forward, skirts wrapped tight around her legs as she bolted from the collapsing sanctuary. Her breath burned in her throat and her heart thudded in her chest, like an alarm.
Behind her, the world unraveled. Shouts shattered into each other, wood splintered, and fire leapt eagerly toward anything dry. The sound of the torch hitting the wall made her flinch even as she ran, its flames catching fast like a curse.
Run. Just run.
People fled past and all around her. The wide eyes of a boy flashed as he tripped over a fallen beam. A builder bellowed his son’s name. The air filled with ash and panic. Kirsteen darted off with the urgency of someone who knew exactly where the edge of safety was.
Dear God, make it stop.
Mairead turned to follow, legs aching, lungs raw, and then she heard a heavier sound. It didn’t fit. Boots that pounded like hooves. She looked over her shoulder and froze.
A man. No—a figure that barely resembled one. Towering. Misshapen. Scars made a map of cruelty across his face; one eye bulged, the other sunk deep like rot in fruit. Their eyes met and his were glittering with something feral and certain. The corners of his mouth lifted into a grin that wasn’t human. It was hungry.
Mairead’s pulse surged. She tore her gaze away and forced her legs to move faster, pushing past the stitch blooming in her side, past the burn in her throat. Her feet tore through mud and moss, every breath shallow, every step panicked.
But even as she ran, she knew it was too late.
The sound of his pursuit bore down on her like a storm. She fled harder, her breath hitching with every step. The air, choked with smoke and noise, rasped through her throat and her eyes watered. She ran faster than she’d ever thought she could, but still it wasn’t enough.
Too close. Too fast. Please, Lord—
An arm hooked tight around her middle. She cried out as her balance snapped and the world spun. Her back hit the earth with a thud that knocked her breath loose. She tried to scream, but he was already on top of her, pressing a hand over her mouth.
His weight compressed her ribs. His fingers found her wrists and forced them to the dirt. She kicked, but her feet found no purchase. His stench was unbearable—smoke and filth and sweat. His face hovered inches above hers.
“A holy lass,” he muttered, teeth bared. “Sent tae save us heathens, aye?”
He leaned closer, his breath hot against her cheek.
“Thought ye could come here and build over us?” he sneered, voice thick with bile. “Raise yer cross on burnt stone and call it mercy?”
His grip tightened. She tried to twist away, but he pressed down harder, breath hot against her cheek.
“We are faithless, aye? I wonder,” he rasped, voice soaked in malice, “how much yer God’ll help ye now.”
Her body recoiled even as it was trapped, her lungs struggled. Her arms buckled in his grip, her legs kicked, failed. The smoke around her thickened, the flames were now all around.
“Please,” she choked. “Please dinnae.”
He laughed, his breath hot against her cheek, as he shifted more of his weight onto her chest, the pressure forcing the last gasp from her lungs. His hands fumbled with the fabric of her skirts, tugging them up despite her legs thrashing with every ounce of strength she had left. Panic flooded her bloodstream.
Please, Lord, help me. Nae like this.
Then the weight vanished, ripped away with such force her chest bucked upward, and air slammed into her lungs in a single, searing gasp. She choked on it. Coughed. Her arms fell open beside her, numb and shaking.
She blinked against the smoke, lashes wet with sweat and ash, her body curled like something discarded. Her skirts were twisted around her thighs, her back slick with earth. Every nerve screamed.
Through the blur of flame and fog, she saw him.
A figure, tall, broad shoulders cut against the light, cloaked in smoke and silence. He walked through the blaze without flinching or faltering. Like an angel of vengeance.
God above… he looks like judgment and mercy both. A man shouldnae be that handsome. It’s impossible.
He didn’t speak, didn’t look at her, but simply gripped the attacker by the collar, the movement swift, final.
Mairead couldn’t see the aftermath. Her limbs betrayed her, heavy as iron. Her vision veiled over. She heard a snarl that couldn’t have been human, and the answering crack of something being moved with force.
The fire caught on, and his eyes met hers across the smoke. And in that moment, pinned beneath his stare, she knew he was had come to save her.
Chapter Two
Flames rose like banners of judgment, clawing at the sky with a heat that warped the air. Smoke rolled in waves over stone, timber, and flesh, rendering the world a stifling haze. Mairead lay where the ground had taken her, half-curled on her side, her chest heaving against the unbearable pressure in her lungs. Her wimple had come loose, strands of damp hair clinging to her cheeks. Her ribs ached with every breath, her knees were raw, slick with blood. Her throat burned was by the smoke.
She couldn’t move but he moved like he had been summoned by the fire itself.
She saw him only in flashes. Through stinging eyes and broken breath, his form emerged between curls of smoke: a bare back licked by flame, muscles flexing beneath skin streaked with soot, a scarred arm rising and falling in arcs of controlled violence. He fought like someone reclaiming dominion.
The brute who had attacked her lunged again, shouting something guttural. But he was slower now, confused, winded. The stranger caught him mid-charge with a hook to the ribs that cracked like kindling. He followed it with a knee to the gut that folded the man, then grabbed him by the collar and flung him against the half-collapsed beam like he weighed nothing at all.
The man stumbled to his feet with a roar, blood streaming from his nose, swinging wide with something clenched in his hand. A shard of broken wood, sharp enough to wound, but the stranger didn’t flinch. He sidestepped cleanly, caught the wrist in mid-swing and twisted. A snap echoed sharply over the fire. The shard dropped and the brute screamed.
Then came the finishing blow—an elbow to the jaw, a closed fist to the temple, and a final, ruthless strike that dropped the man where he stood.
He didn’t look at her, didn’t say a word. Just turned slightly, scanning the chaos around them. His chest heaved with effort, but his stance was still coiled, like he could go again, and harder, if needed.
Mairead could only stare. There was no grace in his violence, only certainty.
And still the fire burned, destroying everything around them.
The beams overhead groaned like dying creatures. One snapped and fell, scattering embers across the scorched ground. The stranger didn’t so much as flinch. Ash fell on his shoulders like snow, clung to his hair, streaked his arms. He stood still, breathing deep, as if the fire itself answered to him.
Mairead coughed, the motion tearing at her lungs. The smoke forced its way into her throat, bitter and acrid, leaving a film of ash on her tongue and the taste of burnt timber and iron deep in the back of her mouth. It clawed down her throat with every breath.
Her hands curled weakly in the moss. Her mouth moved around the shape of a prayer, but no sound escaped. Her chest rose and fell in jagged shudders as her vision began to tunnel.
The light fractured. Everything narrowed to a single, burning thread. Her senses collapsed inward, sound dulled, her limbs turned weightless, and then it was as if the ground vanished beneath her. She was falling, not through space, but into a void edged in flame and silence, as though her body no longer belonged to the world it once obeyed.
She felt a rough hand on her face. A sort of slap—brief and gentle—landed on her cheek, more of a nudge than anything.
Her eyes flew open.
He was crouched over her now, framed by firelight. His face stole her breath. Sharp angles, unreadable eyes, and a jaw darkened by soot and stubble. His features were forged in something harder than beauty. Grief, maybe. Or war.
Saints have mercy…
He looked like something pulled from a legend.
He looked at her with unwavering intent, the kind of focus that stripped away ceremony without blinking
I cannae look away.
“Ye need tae stay awake,” he said, voice low and coarse.
She parted her lips, but no words came.
He didn’t wait. His shirt was off in a single motion, his torso thick with scars that told a story. He turned away for a moment, vanishing briefly into the haze. When he returned, the shirt was damp, glistening with moisture from a nearby patch of ground where fire hadn’t yet touched. He pressed the cold, soaked wool to her mouth and nose.
She flinched.
“Breathe,” he ordered. “Through it. Slow.”
She tried. The water smelled of smoke and metal and it burned as the air went down. She coughed hard. Once, then again. Her ribs cried out in protest. Her throat seized and loosened in turns, trying to pull in something that didn’t hurt.
One hand cradled the back of her head, the other steadied her at the shoulder. He anchored her.
She inhaled again, this time with slightly more control. The world came back to her in small pieces: the moss beneath her spine, the bitter taste of soot, the weight of her own limbs. And him.
He smelled of fire and sweat. Of brine and bark.
“Can ye move?”
She tried lifting her arms but they trembled. Her legs shifted, then gave out.
He exhaled, then gathered her, his arms sliding under her knees and behind her back, lifting her without strain. Her fingers, without meaning to, clutched at his bare shoulder. His skin was coarse, calloused, sun hardened.
He carried her through smoke and ash, his pace steady. Behind them, the flames roared. The chapel timbers collapsed in a groan. The roof buckled, but he did not turn to look.
He walked her to the edge of the chaos, where the air was cooler, where the smoke thinned enough for the sky to reappear. There, he knelt and lowered her on the grass with a care that did not match the force he had shown only moments before.
She clung to the cloth over her face. The air that passed through it felt heavy but livable.
He rose. “Wait here,” he said roughly. “I’ll come back.”
Then he turned back toward the fire. She wanted to call out, but her voice had abandoned her.
She watched him reenter the blaze from afar. Not as a fighter now, but as a man who knew what had to be done. He moved among the scattered workers, the men with buckets and ropes and shouted orders. At one point, she saw him take the rope at the well and draw it up himself.
And still, the fire raged, but he did not yield to it.
Mairead’s head lolled against the moss. Her limbs were no longer her own. Her vision fluttered in and out. The shirt in her hands was the only tether she had left at that moment.
She closed her eyes.
This was nae messenger o’ God, she thought, somewhere between thought and oblivion. Nay angel wears scars like that. Nay savior speaks without blessing.
And yet—
He had come to save her. And somehow, in the hollow left behind by fear, that was enough of an answer for her.
Time expanded in the strange hush that followed the fire. The final flames sputtered and curled into smoke, their resistance waning. Around her, the world descended into heavy silence. Ash floated like snow across the blackened bones of the church. Stone steamed beneath the wreckage. The air was dense with the stench of scorched wood, burnt wool, and the bitter tang of violence, freshly spent.
Dear God… they’ve burned it again. All we rebuilt, all we prayed over gone in a blink.
Mairead remained still, spine pressed into the scorched moss, the cloth he had given her clutched tight in her hands. Her limbs had ceased their shaking, but they held no will of their own.
They had raised beams with bare hands, knelt in ash and mud, clung to the promise that light could return to Glen Lyon. She had believed it. And now—
What kind o’ hatred did it take tae burn down a house o’ God twice?
From somewhere deeper in the ruin, the sound of water met wood with a sharp hiss. A man sobbed, open and unrestrained.
She opened her eyes. The man who saved her was returning.
He sat beside her, the same control evident in his motions and in the way he had lifted beams from the path of others. His chest bore the weathering of war: scars, bruises yellowed at the edges, and the deep stillness of someone who had learned not to flinch.
“How dae ye feel?” His voice had settled. Still rough, but not sharp. No softness, but no longer something meant to wound.
She cleared her throat. “Like I’ve survived something I shouldnae have.”
He made a sound, half scoff, half exhale, and reached for the waterskin at his side.
“Here.”
She tried to lift her hand. Her fingers twitched and she failed. He noted it, said nothing, and steadied her head with one palm while tilting the skin to her lips with the other. The water was cold, drawn straight from the river, sharp with minerals and the faint taste of stone. The cold cut through the burn in her throat like mercy.
Her first swallow turned into a cough. The second stayed down.
“Enough?”
She nodded, too winded to speak.
He shifted beside her, soaked the shirt again using what remained of the water, then wrung it out and brought it to her face.
“Let me help.”
This time she didn’t resist. He began with her temple, wiping away soot and sweat. Then her jawline. Her throat. He didn’t linger. His movements were efficient, almost clinical.
But the precise, measured way he touched her stirred something unspoken beneath her skin. A heat that wasn’t fire.
She blinked it back, ashamed of the way her breath caught, of the way her body leaned, barely. Guilt followed hard on the feeling, sharp and immediate. She turned her face slightly, as though the soot had settled somewhere he couldn’t reach.
She watched him through lowered lashes, her gaze flicking to the curve of his jaw, the tension still held in his hands. Then she shifted slightly. Just enough to pull back. Her fingers tightened around the cloth, and she nodded once, a subtle motion that said it was enough. “Thank ye.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Ye’re welcome.”
The silence settled back over them, awkward now, at least for her. Her hands stilled, her gaze fixed on the cloth in her lap as if it might speak first. The weight of his nearness pressed at the edges of her thoughts, and she suddenly felt the heat rise again.
“What’s yer name?” she asked quietly.
He looked at her directly then, as if he had known the question would come and had been waiting for it.
“Mairead,” she offered when he said nothing. “O’ Caorann. I came with the Church.”
He rose with the quiet resolve of someone who never moved unless it served a purpose. Every inch of him stayed composed, as if motion itself were a decision.
“Raghnall,” he said.
The name struck something inside her. It was a name spoken in sermons and whispers both, a name she had been taught to fear before she ever understood what fear was. Laird Raghnall, they had said, worshipped stone and storm, bowed to trees, not God. She had imagined someone wild-eyed, beastlike. This man was none of those things, which somehow made it worse.
“Raghnall mac Anndra?”
He nodded. A single, precise gesture. ”Aye.”
Her spine straightened. “Ye’re the laird o’ Glen Lyon?”
He arched a brow. “Dae I look like a stable boy?”
She studied him, stunned. This was the man whispered about in Caorann, the one used to frighten children into obedience? This was the pagan laird whose name preceded threats and warnings?
“I didnae expect—”
“What?”
“That ye were the one tae save me.” Her throat worked once around the words, a quiet swallow betraying something she couldn’t name. The admission felt heavier spoken aloud than it had in her thoughts.
He didn’t smile. But something in his expression shifted. ”Why nae?”
“Because…” She hesitated. The words came to her more quickly than they should have, and she nearly swallowed them again. But honesty was a sharp thing once unsheathed. “…ye’re a pagan.”
He exhaled through his nose. The noise was quiet, not amused. “Pagan. Nae a monster.”
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. “Aye. But that’s nae… I dinnae mean it as a curse.”
His mouth flattened. “Good. If I were,” he said, tone sharpening, “ye’d be dead.”
“I’ve nay right tae judge.” She bit her lip. “But I have every right tae question.”
“And I’ve every right tae be offended,” he said, the corners of his mouth unmoving. His expression held no heat, only the tired caution of a man who had heard this too many times to care, but not enough to let it pass unanswered.
Their eyes held, unmoving.
Then, quieter, he added, “This wasnae meant tae happen.”
“The fire?”
He nodded.
She searched his face. No flicker of doubt, no hesitation. Just certainty, worn thin by anger. ”It was yer people.”
She stared at him, the words catching in her mouth before she said them. The weight of ash still clung to her skin, and the screams still echoed somewhere behind her ribs.
“That daesnae change what’s been done,” she said at last, quieter than before.
“Nay,” he said. “But it determines what happens next.” His voice was level, but there was something bitter buried beneath it.
She didn’t know what he meant. The men who had started the fire…Were they his kin? His enemies? In Caorann, they spoke of Glen Lyon justice as something half-legend, half-warning. There were stories of blood rites, of traitors buried standing. She had never known what to believe. And now, with the laird before her, she realized she still didn’t.
Mairead looked down at her hands. The cloth had gone slack in her grip. ”I cannae stay here. Nae beside a man who denies God.”
He continued, his tone unchanging. “Ye dinnae need faith tae act with decency. Or courage. I pulled ye from the fire. I stopped the man who would’ve defiled ye. I helped ye breathe. If that’s nae holy enough, perhaps yer God measures with a narrow rule.”
She didn’t speak. She had prayed and this man, this pagan, had been the one to answer.
His words echoed in the hollow of her chest, heavier than scripture. If she told the priests in Caorann what had happened and what he had done, they would call it luck. Or blasphemy.
The sea had left her drowsy, lulled by its constant motion and whispered promises. For the final hour of the crossing, Odette remained pressed against the wooden rail, her fingers curled tightly around the rough wool of her traveling cloak, eyes heavy as she watched the misty outline of land approach. The salt air clung to her skin, gritty and cold, and the cries of gulls echoed overhead, sharp and plaintive beneath the leaden sky.
When the vessel finally docked, she rose with the tentative grace of a child on the edge of something unfamiliar. Her legs tingled, sluggish from stillness. Her braid had loosened in the wind, blonde strands sticking to her damp cheeks. This place—Scotland—felt different. The wind had teeth. The sky was a veil of iron. She understood none of the words shouted by the dockhands. They were foreign, clipped and unfamiliar, heavy in the mouth like stones.
Her small suitcase, a worn blue leather case tied with her mother’s ribbon, felt too heavy in her hands. Each footstep down the gangplank thudded louder than it should have, echoing through her chest as much as the dock.
A black carriage waited nearby, rigid and formal, its wooden frame trimmed in tarnished metal. Emblazoned on the door was a strange crest—a lion encircled by curling vines.
A tall, expressionless man approached. He wore a long black coat and gloves, his hair neatly combed, his face unreadable.
“Mademoiselle Odette,” he said, bowing his head slightly. His accent was thick, foreign to her ear. “Yer faither is expecting ye. I am Malcolm, the house butler.”
She offered a shy, halting “Bonjour,” barely above a whisper.
He did not return the greeting. Instead, he reached for her case.
“I can carry it,” she said quickly, some part of her wanting to assert herself, to hold onto one small thread of control.
“Aye,” he replied, taking it regardless. “But ye willnae.”
She followed him in silence, her footsteps muffled by the wet earth.
Inside the carriage, the upholstery was stiff and cold. She folded her hands in her lap, posture perfect, chin high—like her governess had taught her. But her eyes remained fixed to the small window, watching the countryside roll past like a dream she wasn’t part of. The hills were wide and grey-green, dotted with sheep and stone fences. The sky loomed endlessly above, a pale wash of silver.
She missed the golden warmth of France. She missed the sound of bread crust cracking open. She missed the scent of lavender and the steady cadence of voices she understood.
Four days since she’d seen her governess. Her father’s letters had been frequent and affectionate—ink-smudged, always ending with promises—but it had been nearly two years since she had seen him. He had remarried. A Scottish woman named Sheona. Odette had practiced the name in secret, over and over. But it always sounded like flint between her teeth.
The house rose like a relic from the hill.
Not quite a castle, but close. Its dark stone walls were coated in ivy, and the roofline cut sharp against the sky. The windows were long and narrow, recessed like eyes. Two stone griffins flanked the grand entrance, their mouths frozen mid-snarl.
The carriage halted. Malcolm stepped out and opened the door, offering a gloved hand.
“Welcome tae Beaumont House,” he said.
She stepped down cautiously, boots crunching against the gravel. The air smelled of ash and peat, of something earthy and old. She wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders.
A man stood at the top of the stairs.
Familiar.
“Papa!” she cried, voice breaking.
She dropped her suitcase and ran. Her braid bounced against her back. Her legs, unsteady on the voyage, found speed as if her body remembered its way home.
He caught her mid-leap, arms wrapping tight around her waist. His coat smelled like pipe smoke and worn parchment. His beard brushed her cheek like bristles. Her heart opened.
“Ma petite,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Mon coeur. Look at you. You have grown like the wild roses of summer.”
She burrowed against him, desperate for his warmth, for the solidity of him. He was here. Real. Solid. She felt like she might dissolve if she let go.
“I missed you,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“And I, you. Every day since I left.”
He set her down gently, brushing windblown hair from her brow. “Taller, no? And your mother’s eyes. The same frown when you’re trying not to cry.”
She laughed, embarrassed, and swiped at her eyes.
Then she felt it.
A presence.
She turned slowly.
At the top of the stairs, standing just beyond the threshold of the house, was a woman. She was tall and composed, her dress a deep forest green. Her dark auburn hair was pulled so tightly from her face it gave her an expression of severity. Her smile was slight, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her hands were folded in front of her.
Odette knew instantly that this was Sheona. There was nothing warm in her posture. Nothing soft. Her beauty was precise, calculated.
Odette stepped slightly closer to her father.
For a moment, it was as if nothing had changed. But then he drew back. His hands, strong and rough, stayed at her shoulders, anchoring her in the hush that followed.
“Ma petite,” he said, his voice softened by memory. He crouched to her level, searching her face. “No one will ever take the place of your maman. You know that. She was… irreplaceable.”
Odette nodded, though her chin trembled. The soft weight of those words curled into her like a ribbon, sad and sweet. She didn’t fully understand them, but she wanted to believe them. Her father had always spoken in truths too large for her to hold all at once. Still, she nodded. That was what daughters did.
He pressed onward, gently. “But sometimes, when the heart has known sorrow, it learns to carry joy again. Not the same joy—but a new kind. You will understand one day, when you are older.”
Odette wasn’t sure she wanted a new kind. She wanted the old kind, the kind that smelled of lemon soap and sang lullabies in French. But she nodded again. Her fingers gripped the fabric of his coat with the desperation of someone trying to hold on to what remained.
He rose and turned to the woman who had been waiting, half in shadow.
“Odette,” he said carefully, “this is Sheona.”
Sheona came forward, her steps deliberate. She lowered herself into a crouch with a poise that reminded Odette of statues—elegant, unmoving, cold.
“Hello, Odette,” she said. Her French was passable, but her voice held none of the softness of the language. It was too precise.
Odette dipped her head politely. She did not smile, not yet. But she stepped forward when her father gave the smallest nod.
Sheona’s embrace came too quickly. It was practiced, unnatural in its choreography. Her arms wrapped around Odette tightly—too tightly. The fabric of her bodice smelled of lilies and something metallic, like jewelry left out in the rain. Odette felt the pressure of the woman’s ribs, the tension in her shoulders. This was not the softness of her mother’s touch. This was something else.
“Ye are lovelier than I imagined,” Sheona murmured. “So delicate.”
Odette pulled away and blinked. “Merci, Madame.”
Her father smiled, proud. “Sheona has prepared everything for your arrival. The room, your books, even a few sweets.”
Odette forced a smile and turned toward Sheona again. “You look very elegant,” she offered, in her best polite French. “Like someone from a painting.”
Sheona’s eyes narrowed slightly, but her lips curled upward. “What a lovely thing tae say.”
Footsteps clattered on the stairs.
Two girls appeared, descending quickly. One was taller, with pale gold hair tied back in an elaborate braid and a faint, curious smile. The other trailed just behind, her auburn curls bouncing, her expression sharp and sizing.
“And these,” said her father, gesturing with pride, “are your new sisters. Vivienne and Celeste.”
Vivienne curtsied. “Bonjour,” she said in halting French, the accent harsh. “Welcome tae Scotland.”
Celeste folded her arms. “She’s not as tall as I thought. Papa said she was nearly ten.”
“I am ten,” Odette said, blinking.
Celeste turned her head. “Dinnae look it.”
“Celeste,” Sheona said, her tone flat with warning, but the girl only smirked.
Vivienne stepped forward. “We’re going tae the garden,” she said. “Maman says it’s good tae get fresh air.”
Odette hesitated, unsure whether that was an invitation.
Her father rested a hand on her head. “Go on, ma chérie. Play with your sisters. The sun’s still out, and the garden is safe.”
She looked down at her shoes. The laces were crooked; one had loosened on the walk from the carriage. Her stockings sagged slightly. Her dress, though carefully chosen, was wrinkled from travel. Her fingers clutched at the edge of her sleeve.
“Can I leave my suitcase in my room first?”
“Of course,” he said. “Malcolm will see to it.”
She turned and followed the girls. They did not wait. Their skirts flared as they hurried through the corridor, whispering to each other in quick, breathless bursts. Odette’s smaller steps forced her to skip now and then to keep up.
The back doors opened into a garden that looked like it had once been drawn from a fairytale. But now that story had ended. The rose bushes were unruly. The hedges overgrown. Lavender and heather crowded the paths. Wild bees danced between blossoms.
Celeste darted toward a crooked swing and shouted, “Ye can sit if ye want! But the bench is wet.”
“Yes,” Vivienne echoed. “Ye can watch.”
Then they were gone—laughing, swinging, racing in circles that did not include her.
Odette remained where she was, caught in a pause she didn’t know how to step out of. The sun warmed her shoulders. A breeze fluttered the edges of her sleeves. Her new sisters’ voices lifted and echoed across the garden like birds in flight.
She moved to the bench and sat carefully, tucking her dress beneath her. The wood was indeed damp. She felt it soak through her stockings. But she didn’t stand.
Sheona’s hug still lingered. Her words, too, with their polished sweetness. Odette’s mind tried to sift through what felt strange. The house was grand. The garden full. But something within her remained unsure.
She watched the clouds drift, white and careless. A bee landed near her foot. She tucked her hands beneath her knees. She would be good. She would be sweet. That was what girls like her were meant to be.
But already, the world felt different.
Already, she felt alone.
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
Beaumont Estate, 1715
Odette Beaumont was already on her feet, toes brushing the cold stone floor as she tugged her dressing gown tighter, the morning sun not yet generous with its warmth. Her long, blonde hair was still half-pinned, the rest tumbling in stubborn waves down her back, and she had not yet touched the basin of water meant to greet her waking. There was no time. There never was.
She yanked open the shutters to a dawn streaked in silver, the light glinting across the wide, lonely land she was forced to call home. The Beaumont estate stretched beyond what the eye could measure, but it was land slowly being choked by darkness and decay. But that morning, their salvation would come in the form of Nevil Hillam.
Even the name clanged in her head like iron dropped onto marble. He was due to arrive by noon, a man with enough property to silence most councilmen, and just enough charm to pass for appealing, though Odette had never seen him in person. She had only heard of him from Sheona’s lips, while her stepmother taught her daughters, over afternoon tea, all the ways to trap a man like him.
Odette moved quickly, folding out of her sleep-wrinkled linens with military precision. Her gown slid off her shoulders in one swift motion, and she dressed in a cream working dress, before her hair was fully secured with a blue ribbon behind her head. She left her room without ceremony, door swinging wide as she strode into the corridor. The floorboards groaned underfoot, but she didn’t wince. She’d grown used to those groans. If the house wasn’t complaining, she’d worry it had finally given up.
Nevil owned the land that pressed against the Beaumont estate borders. If his acres married theirs, they might finally tear their lands from the Galbraith clan’s grasp. That was the current Beaumont strategy, the one Odette had overheard Sheona preparing for the past few years.
In the grand hall, the light through the arched windows bled golden across the dusty floors. She paused, taking stock.
That was where Nevil would first step foot. She saw it clearly—the muddy boot prints, the scuffs on the wainscotting, the way the dust danced in the morning light, ready to betray every untended surface.
And Odette, the sole biological Beaumont daughter, had been reduced to little more than a maid. A head maid at best, accountable for every speck of dust that dared settle on any surface. Today, of all days, everything had to be flawless.
Sheona had always insisted that the inheritance left behind by her father, the late Louis Beaumont, was hers alone to manage. Not one coin, not a parcel, had been left in Odette’s name. “Yer faither didnae believe in daughters as heirs,” Sheona had once said with a smug shrug, draped in mourning silk that had cost enough to feed the tenants for half a year.
Odette had accepted it at the time. She had been young, scared and foolishly obedient, her grief over her father’s death leaving no room to consider the consequences of being left penniless and alone.
With a deep breath, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. Her arms started to ache halfway through sweeping, but she pressed on. The rugs were beaten, the banisters polished until they reflected her face. In the dining hall, she rearranged the chairs three times before they felt right, then set to polishing the silver until it gleamed like a second sun. She opened the tall windows, letting in the scent of summer-laced grass and the soft rustle of garden life.
The garden. It needed to be perfect.
A picnic had been suggested by Sheona with her usual flippant grace, a casual thing said with a velvet-bound voice. But it meant more work. Odette paced through the hedgerows and flower beds, rearranging cushions, checking for bees’ nests in the seats, retying the canopies in tighter knots, pulling weeds with her bare hands.
By the time she finished, her palms were streaked with green, her back damp from effort. Still, she couldn’t stop. She rushed inside, carefully washing and drying her feet before, to avoid smudging the pristine floors, then made her way to the kitchen. Her stomach growled once, but she ignored it. The cook should have been halfway through the preparations by now.
Instead, she was met with chaos.
“Didnae I tell ye, ye fumble-fingered nyaff?” The cook’s voice cracked like a whip across the kitchen, aimed at some cowering maid.
The cook’s face was the color of overripe plums from the oven’s blistering heat and a lifetime of shouted orders. Arms thick as rolling pins carved through the flour-dusted air, sending clouds swirling in their wake as she bellowed at the staff.
Her two assistants scrambled about like cornered hens, all twitchy limbs and darting glances, their aprons flapping as if the devil himself were at their heels. The clang of copper pots dueled with the hiss of boiling stock, but the cook’s voice cut through it all, like razored steel against the kitchen’s roar. Then those flinty eyes locked on Odette.
A derisive snort escaped her before she made a failed attempt at composing herself. “Dinnae look at me like that, Miss Odette. I told the girls yesterday—we’re out o’ nutmeg, we’re out o’ sugar, and the butcher delivered lamb instead o’ quail. Lamb! Fer a picnic!”
Odette didn’t blink. “Give me the list.”
Cook blinked, startled. “Ye’ll go yerself?”
“Unless you’d like to present roasted lamb for the picnic.”
The cook thrust the list at her, muttering under her breath, and Odette turned on her heel and headed toward the grand entrance. She was halfway to the door, breath already picking up with the anticipation of a sprint to town, when two high-pitched voices trilled down the hall.
“Odette!”
“Odette! Wait!”
Celeste first, all powdered cheeks and manicured hands, followed by Vivienne with her sharp eyes and the silken sneer she thought was subtle. They were already impeccably dressed, with corsets too tight, hair pinned in elaborate nests and lips like bleeding cherries. Odette stilled. She knew that tone, and she cursed herself for not leaving the house a little earlier, before they’d had a chance to see her leave.
Vivienne reached her first. “Ye’ve nae fixed the hem o’ me gown, and I want it ready fer the luncheon before—”
Celeste interrupted, “And I cannae find the sapphire comb. The one we brought back from Elmsport? I need it. And the ribbon box—have ye even looked? I told ye days ago.”
“Ye havenae cleaned me room,” Vivienne added, as if the realization offended her.
Celeste brightened. “Or mine! And Maither said we should each bring a token fer Mr. Hillam. Something thoughtful. Like poetry, maybe? Or an embroidered kerchief? Ye can dae one fer each o’ us. Ye’re good with thread.”
“And words.”
The list spiraled impossibly fast, like a fever dream. Odette did not flinch. She stood very still, the market list in her fingers like a blade.
“If you keep me here, there will be no food on the table when Mr. Hillam arrives. There will be no tokens, no hemmed gowns, no sapphire combs—no picnic.” Odette finally interrupted them, raising a hand to silence their chatter as she struggled to contain her frustration. Losing her temper would only make matters worse.
Vivienne’s brows lifted. “Well, someone’s in a mood.”
“Dinnae take that tone with us,” Celeste huffed. “If ye speak tae us like that again, we’ll tell Mther. Ye ken what that means.”
A flicker of pain, deep in the spine. A ghost-memory of leather across skin, of welts hidden beneath dresses. Odette met their eyes squarely.
“Do what you must. As will I.” And she pushed past them before either could reply.
Outside, the morning had warmed. The sun found her skin, kissing the sheen of sweat that coated her neck and collarbone. The sky stretched open above her, and her boots hit the gravel path with purposeful rhythm. She felt the familiar ache of fury in her chest—a low, ever-burning heat that she had learned to breathe around.
The wind caught her hair as she stepped onto the main road, tugging strands free from the ribbon she’d tied low behind her neck. She didn’t bother to fix it. The market waited for her, and her time was already borrowed. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and kept her gaze steady, her steps sure.
The town wore suspicion like a second skin. It clung to the buildings, weather-worn and squat, and to the faces of the people who watched from behind carts and cracked shutters. Odette knew how they saw her. Her features were too delicate, her posture too straight, her cheeks too sharply carved, her tongue too quick. She was too foreign to blend in with them—too French. And the town hated the French.
It didn’t matter that she had lived in the Highlands since she was fourteen. It didn’t matter that she had earned her keep and held her tongue. Her voice betrayed her the moment she opened her mouth. Her vowels had edges. So, she spoke as little as she could.
Every errand was a tightrope. The Galbraith lands bristled with men who polished their muskets like sacred relics and saw rebellion in every stranger’s glance. Their hatred of outsiders ran deep as their peat bogs, and they had no patience for women who didn’t know their place. Especially not foreign women with French and Jacobite blood whispering through their veins.
Odette never bowed.
She kept her eyes forward and her steps quick. The grocer’s stall stood first in her path. Lemons. Soft cheese. She pushed open the shop door, its bell jingling with false cheer.
“Well now, good day tae ye, miss.” The grocer’s son leaned against the counter, broad shoulders straining his linen shirt, a smirk playing about his mouth that suggested he found himself endlessly amusing. His gaze swept over her like she was a cut of meat on display. “What can I dae fer ye today?”
She said nothing. Simply raised one finger and pointed to the yellow citrus stacked in woven baskets. His smirk faltered. An awkward beat passed before he huffed and began bagging the lemons, his thick fingers denting their waxy skins.
When she pointed next to the cheese, a creamy round wrapped in muslin, he snatched it up without meeting her eyes this time, his earlier charm curdling into irritation.
Coins clinked against the counter as she paid. As he counted out her change, she caught his muttered words, “Bloody odd, some folk…”
The insult hung in the air between them, sour as the lemons in her basket.
Odette pocketed the change without reaction. Pride was for those who could afford it—for women who hadn’t been whipped by their stepmothers two days prior.
The baker was next. The girl behind the counter wouldn’t meet her eye. That was fine. Odette didn’t need friendship. She needed flour. It wasn’t until she reached the end of the row of shops, where the butcher’s stood with its sagging sign and smoke-scented walls, that she allowed herself to breathe more deeply.
Maria, the butcher’s wife, greeted her with a warm smile from behind the counter, hands still dusted with salt. Her dark hair was pulled back in a braid, her apron worn through at the hips. She looked tired, but kind. She was always kind.
“Ye look flustered today,” Maria said, wiping her hands on a cloth.
“It’s been quite a day today,” Odette replied with a faint smile. “I have come to buy some quails, for the picnic.”
The two children—Niall and little Tom—darted out from the back room like arrows. Tom hugged Odette’s legs with the enthusiasm of a pup, and she reached down to ruffle his hair. Niall simply grinned at her from behind a row of smoked sausages.
“How is the madhouse today?” Maria asked, moving behind the counter and beginning to wrap parcels.
Odette exhaled through her nose. “Vivienne has a list of demands for me before noon, Celeste is looking for fine jewels, and Mr. Hillam arrives by noon.”
“May the saints protect ye.”
“They’ve stopped answering me letters.”
Maria laughed. The sound was rough and real. It softened Odette in places inside her soul she didn’t realize had gone stiff.
“Still thinking o’ running off?” Maria asked after a moment, quieter now. More cautious.
Odette looked at her, then glanced at the children, who were busy poking at a jar of pickled onions. “I’ve sent a letter,” she said softly. “To my aunt in Lyon.”
Maria stilled. Her dark brows drew together. “That aunt? The one with the bakery near the port?”
“The same. I don’t know if she still lives there. Or if she still thinks of me as family. But if she does…”
Maria nodded. “She will.”
“I asked her for help. A place to stay. Funds, if she can spare them.”
“And if she daesnae reply?”
Odette wrapped her arms across her chest. “Then I will think again. But I had to try.”
Maria looked at her for a long time, then passed over the wrapped parcel of meats and dry sausages. “Ye deserve more than that house. More than scraps and silence.”
“We all do.”
The door creaked open behind them. Three men stepped inside.
They were not locals. Odette knew that before they spoke by the way they carried themselves, like they expected space to be cleared for them. Their coats were long, travel-stained, their boots laced in a style she hadn’t seen in months. One of them, taller than the others, had a scar across his chin that looked recent.
“We need supplies,” the tallest said, voice low and hard. “Dry meats. Cuts that keep. And nay fuss.”
Maria’s smile faltered. “Aye. I’ve some salted pork and beef left from last week.”
The man gave her a cursory nod, eyes already moving over the room. When they landed on Odette, they paused.
“Ye from here?” he asked.
Odette met his gaze evenly, then nodded.
The man stepped closer. Not threatening, exactly. But not friendly either. “Where from?”
“Nearby,” she said. Clear. Calm.
He stared at her for a moment longer, then snorted. Maria moved quickly, placing a wrapped parcel on the counter.
“Here. That should hold ye through the week. It’s all I have until Friday.”
The men exchanged a glance. The one with the scar dropped coins on the wood, never looking away from Odette. Then, the man smiled, slow and ugly. But he turned and walked toward the door. The three of them left without another word and the door shut behind them like a falling axe.
Maria exhaled. “Saints. Odette—”
“I know.”
Maria reached across the counter and touched her hand. “Just go home. Dinnae linger too long.”
Odette nodded. She gathered the parcels, kissed both children and stepped back into the wind.
Chapter Two
Odette clutched the heavy parcels against her chest, her shawl slipping down her shoulder as she half-walked, half-ran down the lane, boots thudding against the damp earth. She cursed herself under her breath for wasting time, though the words came out in little puffs of steam. Idiot. Foolish, chattering idiot. What had possessed her to stay so long? Laughing with Maria like she hadn’t a thousand things left to do. As if that day wasn’t the day the entire household had been waiting for months.
The wind had picked up, dragging the clouds back across the sky and throwing a veil over the sun. Her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm beneath her collarbone, each beat painting the same damning picture of Sheona in the great hall, prematurely lighting the beeswax candles, while Vivienne and Celeste would be draped over their mother’s chaise by now, pouting through rosebud lips about how Odette hadn’t braided their hair with the pearl pins, how the lace at their cuffs hung crooked without her fingers to set it right.
And Nevil Hillam—
The thought struck like icy water. Nevil’s carriage would crest the eastern road in mere hours.
“Damn it,” she muttered, quickening her steps, her boots slipping on the moss-lined cobbles as she veered into a narrower street. Her breath caught sharp in her chest. It wasn’t far now. Just across the green, down the slope. She could be home in twenty minutes if she walked fast.
She was halfway through rearranging her to-do list in her mind—flowers first, then set the table, help Elise with the linens, reheat the broth—when she heard it.
Footsteps.
Heavy, deliberate, just a beat behind her own. She didn’t turn around. Not at first. There were always footsteps behind her in town, weren’t there? People walking, going about their day, minding their business. But something didn’t feel… right. They didn’t match the rhythm of the street. She could hear the click of her own boots, the rustling of her skirts and the echo of something heavier.
Her spine stiffened.
She told herself not to be silly. Town was busy today, as always was on market mornings, and the air smelled of smoked herring and damp wool. Nothing bad could happen in ordinary daylight.
She glanced over her shoulder. Just a flick of her eyes. They were there. The same three men from the shop.
They weren’t near enough to touch her. Not within arm’s reach, and yet they were still too close. Far too close for men who should have been halfway to the tavern by now, considering she’d deliberately lingered in the shop until their footsteps had faded five minutes past.
Sunlight carved their features into something unfamiliar. Indoors, they’d been just rough-faced laborers; out here, the glare sharpened them like knives on a whetstone. The dark-haired one who had spoken to her at the shop, taller than his companions, with a nose that hooked sharply to the left, wasn’t merely smiling. His lips peeled back from teeth that looked too white, too even, in a face weathered by wind and work. It wasn’t a smile at all. It was a predator’s grimace, twisting his already harsh features into something grotesque. The kind of expression that made a woman’s palms sweat and her throat tighten, though she couldn’t say why.
One of the others, shorter and broader, said something low and guttural. The dark-haired man’s smirk widened, and for one terrible second, Odette imagined she could smell the ale on their breath, even across the distance between them.
She snapped her head forward and kept walking, faster now, steps clipped and uneven, eyes fixed on the narrow path ahead.
Don’t panic. You’re imagining things.
She turned down a darker lane. It was narrower than the others, a shortcut only locals used, with crooked little garden gates and several cats underfoot. She hadn’t meant to take it. Her feet had done it without asking her permission. But now that she was there, she tried to see it as a stroke of luck. If they were just going her way, they wouldn’t follow her here. They’d go the long way around, as any normal traveler might.
The road twisted. She passed the blacksmith’s shed, empty at this hour, and a cart of rotten apples, buzzing with flies. She let herself breathe again.
She glanced back. They were still there. All three of them. And they were getting closer.
Her fingers clenched around the string of the package so hard it bit into her skin. She turned down another path. One that made no sense unless you were from there—narrower than the previous, with uneven stones and thorns clawing at your legs. No stranger would know to follow it.
But they did and their boots slapped the stones, louder now. Her chest tightened. She wasn’t imagining it. She was not imagining it.
She sped up. Her arms ached from the weight of the parcels, but she didn’t stop. Her thoughts tangled into knots. Who were they? Why her? She hadn’t looked at them. Hadn’t said a word. Had she done anything to upset them?
She turned again, sharper this time, nearly losing her footing on a patch of gravel. She passed the old garden wall, ducked beneath the low-hanging tree where the crows always nested, and darted into the alley beside the milliner’s, which was narrow enough to make her shoulders brush brick.
When she emerged on the other side, she broke into a run.
The parcels were a hindrance. She clutched them tighter, arms burning, feet slipping, heartbeat hammering so loud she thought it might betray her. But she didn’t stop. Don’t look back. Just move. But she did look. They were running too. And they were faster than her.
No, no, no—
A loose stone caught her foot. She stumbled, arms flailing to catch balance. One bundle tumbled from her grip.
She didn’t even stop to mourn it. She sprinted, still carrying the other parcels.
Skirts flying, loose hair whipping her cheeks, breath ragged in her throat. Her home was still so far, and her feet ached, and the world was too loud.
She turned another corner. Dead end. She skidded to a halt, chest heaving, eyes wild.
No. Not here. Not here.
She spun around. They were there, blocking the only way out. They were silent now, grin gone from the tall one’s face. She backed up against the wall, fingers outstretched behind her, as if the cold stone might offer a way out. Her breath came in frantic bursts, her lungs too small, her heart too loud.
The tallest one spoke.
“Ye dropped yer things,” the words rolled out in a thick brogue, though she couldn’t place the region. Not that it mattered. There was no kindness in that voice, only a rough amusement that put her teeth on edge. She knew the accent well enough, though her own tongue could never wrap around those guttural vowels.
She didn’t answer.
The third one stepped forward. Blond, scruffy. His nose looked like it had been broken and badly set. “Bit o’ a rush, aren’t ye? Something wrong?”
“Yes,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure they heard her.
The dark-haired one stepped into the center. “Funny how yer people always seem tae run when it’s time tae answer fer what they’ve done.”
Odette blinked. “What?”
He didn’t repeat himself.
“Ye live in that big house on the hill, dinnae ye?” asked the blond one, voice too casual. “With all the little silver spoons and the paintings o’ men who never bled a day in their lives.”
She didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Her voice had hidden somewhere beneath her ribs.
“Me land,” the dark one said, “used tae stretch as far as I could see. Me father built it. Me grandfather fought fer it. And yer fine French soldiers burned it tae ash.”
“Me maither,” added the third, quietest of the three, “died with yer flag above her.”
Odette shook her head. “I—I haven’t done anything. I don’t—my family hasn’t—”
“Yer family has,” said the tall one. “They all have. And ye wear their name.”
He stepped closer. Odette’s back hit the stone, as her fingers scraped rough brick and her heart beat so fast it was a war drum in her ears.
“We’ve waited a long time,” he said. “And now it’s time someone paid.”
Odette’s breath left her lungs in a sharp gasp.
The nearest man grabbed her by the upper arm, his grip vice-like and punishing. Another seized a handful of her hair, jerking her head back so suddenly her neck cracked. A small cry escaped her, shrill and desperate. She kicked at one of them—whoever had his hand at her waist—and he swore, grabbing her tighter. It all happened so fast. Her bundles fell to the ground, parcels bursting open.
“Let me go!” she screamed, twisting in their hold, nails clawing at their arms. She tried to bite one—anything to get them off—but they were too many and too strong for her to take on. Their laughter was cruel and close to her ear, their breath reeking of stale drink and old anger. Rough hands yanked at her shawl, another at the laces of her bodice. Her mind flooded with panic.
This is happening.
It didn’t feel real. It was as if she’d been dropped into someone else’s nightmare, someone else’s pain. Her limbs flailed in a hopeless attempt to break free. She kicked, scratched, screamed again. They slapped a hand over her mouth, but she bit it hard, drawing blood.
“Ye filthy little—!” one of them hissed.
A hand tangled in her hair, and with one wrenching pull, her ribbon snapped loose. The silk fluttered to the ground like a white flag of surrender. But she wasn’t surrendering. Not yet. Not ever. She didn’t stop fighting. Her voice cracked as she tried again to scream for help, her throat raw with the effort.
And then—
“Who’s there?”
A man’s voice, deep and cutting through the chaos like a blade. Not close, but not too far either.
Odette screamed again, louder this time. “Help!” Her voice split the quiet of the alley, bright with desperation. One of the men cursed, slapped her across the cheek hard enough to make her vision white out.
“Shut ‘er up!”
“I hear ye!” the voice came again, nearer now.
Odette fought harder, tasted blood in her mouth, tears streaming freely down her face.
Footsteps. Fast. And then—he was there.
At first, she didn’t know what she was seeing. Just a tall figure, broad and cloaked in shadows, standing at the mouth of the alley with a drawn sword.
“Step away from her,” he said, voice low and deadly.
The men froze. One of them laughed nervously. “And who the hell are ye supposed tae be?”
He took a step forward, sunlight catching on the blade.
“Yer final mistake.”
Then it all happened at once.
The stranger moved with terrifying precision. He disarmed the first man in a single motion, elbowed the second hard enough to send him crashing into a wall. The third ran for him with a dagger, only to find himself flat on his back in the mud within seconds, the weapon skidding away.
Odette crouched against the wall, clutching her arms around herself as the sounds of fists and bone and metal rang out in sickening rhythm. She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t even breathe.
He moved like a controlled but ferocious storm, effortless but wrathful. She couldn’t make out his face clearly, but every line of his body spoke of power, of danger wrapped in grace. The man appeared like something born of storm and legends. Every flex of his muscle, every controlled shift of weight speaking of power that hummed beneath his skin. Where other men lumbered or stumbled, he flowed, his body obeying some silent rhythm only he could hear. Sunlight caught his sharp jawline as he fought, and for one breathless moment, Odette forgot how to think.
Magnificent.
The word burned through her like whisky, leaving her throat tight. He was something primal. As if the old tales of warriors blessed by God had taken flesh before her. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.
Within moments, it was done.
The men groaned on the ground, one crawling, another unconscious. The third tried to get up, but the stranger placed a boot on his back and pressed him down.
“Tell yer friends,” he said quietly. “And if I ever see ye near her again, ye’ll regret drawing breath.”
The man whimpered. The stranger let him go. Odette still hadn’t moved.
He turned to her slowly, sword now lowered, his voice softened. “Are ye hurt?”
She blinked up at him, her mind trying to connect thoughts that wouldn’t hold. Her body was shaking, her breath came in short bursts. Her lip stung, her scalp burned where the man had yanked her hair.
“I’m—” She tried to nod. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t argue. Just looked at her a moment, then glanced at the basket she’d dropped in the scuffle. Loaves spilled, the meat parcel burst open and leaking across the stones. He crouched without a word. His movements were unhurried, not delicate exactly, but careful. Intentional.
She watched as he brushed dirt from one of the loaves with his bare hand, rewrapped the meat with surprising precision, and set them back inside the basket. Then, still kneeling, he pulled a clean, pale linen handkerchief from his coat pocket and unfolded it.
“Ye’re bleedin’,” he murmured, not quite meeting her eyes. “May I?”
Odette opened her mouth, unsure what she meant to say. Her hands were still trembling, but she gave the smallest nod.
He rose slowly and stepped close enough that the heat of him reached her, warmth radiating off his coat, his skin, the steam of his breath in the cooling afternoon. When he reached for her lip, he didn’t touch her. Just held the cloth near her mouth, offering it. Waiting.
She took it with shaking fingers. But when she pressed it to her mouth, her hand faltered. Without thinking, he caught her wrist. Not to still her, just to steady it. His grip was surprisingly gentle, calloused skin against hers.
Her heart stuttered. He guided her hand just slightly, then let go, as if the brief contact had been too much.
God, those hands.
Capable of wielding a broadsword yet now helping her tend a cut no deeper than a papercut with the reverence of a priest at altar. Roughened by war, but startlingly kind. Veins traced rivers of strength beneath sun-bronzed skin, the pulse at his wrist steady where hers fluttered wild as a caged bird. The brush of skin against skin sent a spark up her arm.
His shadowed, dark grey eyes lingered on her. He was tall. Not just tall, formidable. The kind of man who carried weight simply by standing still. His jaw was cut like stone, and his eyes, though unreadable, bore the gravity of someone who’d seen too much but feared nothing.
Odette’s breath caught. This strange flutter in her chest that had no place in this moment.
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” she whispered, brushing the tears from her cheeks. Her voice was hoarse. “I was just… heading home.”
She stood too quickly. Her knees buckled, and she nearly stumbled. He reached for her instinctively, one hand at her elbow, but she flinched.
“I’m fine,” she said again, too fast, too sharp.
He stepped back. Her hands shook as she patted her skirts, trying to gather whatever scraps of composure remained. Her ribbon lay in the dirt, but she left it. The thought of bending down, of presenting her back to anyone, even though he was her savior, made her stomach twist
“Thank you,” she said, eyes fixed on the ground. “For helping me.”
“I couldnae ignore yer screams.”
God, that voice. It rolls through me like low thunder before a storm.
“No,” she murmured. “I suppose not.”
She moved past him, legs stiff, shoes crunching on the gravel. She had to leave. Now. Before the tears started again. Before the fear made its way back in. She didn’t give him her name.
The alley spilled out into a narrow street, and she kept walking, faster now, turning sharply left and then right again. She didn’t look back, despite wanting to.
But she heard him.
“Wait—”
Her heart jumped. She kept walking.
“Miss—please—”
She broke into a jog, slipping between two houses, her body moving on instinct. She didn’t know why she ran. He had saved her, not hurt her, but her mind no longer had any trace of rationality. Her fear had roots, and they were deep.
