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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.

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12 years before

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The house rose like a relic from the hill.

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

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

“Welcome tae Beaumont House,” he said.

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

A man stood at the top of the stairs.

Familiar.

“Papa!” she cried, voice breaking.

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

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

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

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

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

“And I, you. Every day since I left.”

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

She laughed, embarrassed, and swiped at her eyes.

Then she felt it.

A presence.

She turned slowly.

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

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

Odette stepped slightly closer to her father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Footsteps clattered on the stairs.

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

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

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

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

“I am ten,” Odette said, blinking.

Celeste turned her head. “Dinnae look it.”

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

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

Odette hesitated, unsure whether that was an invitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But already, the world felt different.

Already, she felt alone.

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Chapter One

Beaumont Estate, 1715

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The garden. It needed to be perfect.

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

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

Instead, she was met with chaos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Odette!”

“Odette! Wait!”

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

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

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

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

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

“And words.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Odette never bowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“May the saints protect ye.”

“They’ve stopped answering me letters.”

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

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

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

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

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

Maria nodded. “She will.”

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

“And if she daesnae reply?”

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

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

“We all do.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ye from here?” he asked.

Odette met his gaze evenly, then nodded.

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

“Nearby,” she said. Clear. Calm.

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

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

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

Maria exhaled. “Saints. Odette—”

“I know.”

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

And Nevil Hillam—

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

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

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

Footsteps.

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

Her spine stiffened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t panic. You’re imagining things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, no, no—

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

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

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

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

No. Not here. Not here.

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

The tallest one spoke.

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

She didn’t answer.

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

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

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

Odette blinked. “What?”

He didn’t repeat himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is happening.

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

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

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

And then—

“Who’s there?”

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

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

“Shut ‘er up!”

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

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

Footsteps. Fast. And then—he was there.

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

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

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

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

“Yer final mistake.”

Then it all happened at once.

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

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

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

Magnificent.

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

Within moments, it was done.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m—” She tried to nod. “I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, those hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I couldnae ignore yer screams.”

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

“No,” she murmured. “I suppose not.”

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

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

But she heard him.

“Wait—”

Her heart jumped. She kept walking.

“Miss—please—”

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

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1578, MacGregor Castle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye, Epona is her name.”

“After the goddess o’ horses?”

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

“It suits her.” Morgana smiled in approval.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Craig laughed. “Nae quite, me lady.”

“Dae ye intend me harm?”

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

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

If only ye kenned the truth, lass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Unhand me!” Morgana demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What can I dae?!

Fear and exhaustion caused tears to stream down her cheeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The broach!

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

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

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

“I will ne’er be yers!”

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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One week earlier, Ballentine Estate

Lady Deidra,

Niall MacRae

The letter had long begun to fray at the edges, smoothed and refolded so many times its creases were soft as silk. Deidra’s fingers traced the words one more time, as though the ink might change beneath her touch. The candle by her bedside flickered, casting trembling shadows across the parchment.

It should have calmed her. It did calm her, or so she told herself. Yet she had read several times that evening alone, as though the words might shift and betray some hidden intention. But they remained gentle and firm, unfaltering in tone. Like Niall himself, she supposed.

This is the right choice.

She curled her legs closer to her chest, blanket bunched at her feet, her chemise wrinkled from sitting still for too long.

Her gaze dropped to the letter again, to the wax seal. She knew that what she had to do. It made sense. Niall was a good man. He had no desire to cage her, no expectations. He’d written her three letters since the arrangement was agreed upon, and in each he’d sounded… reasonable.

She didn’t want love. She didn’t want risk. She wanted peace. And that, at least, he seemed to offer.

A soft knock startled her. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Deidra?” came her brother’s voice—Ewan, calm and warm.

She hastily shoved the letter under the pillow and smoothing the coverlet as though her thoughts might also be hidden that way.

“Aye—come in!”

The door creaked open, and Ewan stepped in, closing it gently behind him. He didn’t speak right away, just looked at her in that way he did when he knew something was wrong. Then he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders like he had done since they were children.

“Ye alright?” he asked softly.

“I’m fine.”

Deidra could see it in his eyes, in the way they lingered on her face—he didn’t believe her. She didn’t blame him.

His fingers tapped lightly against her upper arm. “Ye leave tomorrow,” he said.

She nodded, glancing briefly at the pillow where the letter lay hidden.

“Tae Castle MacRae.”

“Aye.”

He looked down at her. “And how dae ye feel about it?”

Deidra hesitated, then lifted her chin with deliberate grace. “I’m happy.”

Ewan blinked. “Ye dinnae look happy.”

Her lips twitched, the tiniest frown betraying her. “I am content.”

She was, wasn’t she? Content?

The word sat heavy on her tongue, like a stone too large to swallow yet too dangerous to spit out. Content. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t hope. It was… safety. Predictability. A grey, quiet kind of surrender.

She’d once dreamed of more—of love letters that spoke of longing, not logistics. Of a man who would know her favorite things and how she took her tea. Of walks in the dusk and promises of love and devotion whispered against her skin. But that had been another life, another Deidra. Before the kidnapping.

What she had now was better, wasn’t it? An arrangement, clear expectations. No illusions, no heartache.

Yes, contentment was the right word. Not happiness. Happiness could be taken.

So she clung to the smaller word, the safer one, the one that wouldn’t shatter when held too tightly.

“Content,” he repeated, raising a brow.

“This is the most logical choice. I need protection. He needs a wife. We both understand the terms of our arrangement.”

Ewan was silent for a long moment. The candle flame danced between them, casting a golden edge to his profile.

“I always hoped,” he said quietly, “that one day ye’d find something more than logic.”

She turned her face slightly, avoiding his gaze.

“Ye were always the romantic,” he went on. “Remember when ye used tae hide away in the library with those ghastly love stories?”

“I was young,” Deidra shrugged, forcing her gaze to the door so she wouldn’t have to see his expression.

“Ye were hopeful,” his voice was almost scolding.

She said nothing.

He shifted to face her more fully, one hand now resting atop hers. “Deidra, I ken what happened changed ye. I ken it left ye with reasons tae be cautious. But I also ken ye and I ken ye want more than this.”

“Nay,” she said firmly. “I dinnae. I dinnae even want tae look at a man who’s nae kin. It’s better this way.”

Ewan sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Ye ken he’s called a barbarian, right?”

She couldn’t help the slight smile that curled at the corner of her mouth. “Aye, I’m aware.”

“He’s rough. He once punched out a priest over a land dispute.”

Deidra’s brows lifted. “Oh, that story’s true, then?”

Ewan nodded grimly.

Deidra chuckled under her breath. “He’s also… considerate. In his letters, at least.”

Ewan gave her a look. “Ye’re trusting a man ye’ve never met based on three letters.”

“I’m trusting that he understands the arrangement we made. He hasnae tried tae change the terms. He hasnae made demands. That alone makes him better than most.”

Ewan didn’t argue. He only looked at her for a moment, as though weighing his next words.

He reached out and kissed the top of her head. “Ye have a long ride ahead tomorrow,” he said, rising to his feet.

Deidra nodded, eyes flicking again to the pillow.

“Try tae sleep,” he added gently, lingering for a beat before stepping toward the door.

“Goodnight, Ewan.”

“Goodnight, Deidra.”

He closed the door softly behind him.

She didn’t move right away. The candle guttered low. Only then did she slowly slide her hand back beneath the pillow and retrieve the letter.

She read it again.

Her mind wandered to Castle MacRae—what it would look like, what sort of man Niall truly was, whether his promises of peace and distance would hold once they were bound by law. But mostly, her thoughts remained on her brother’s words.

Ye were always the romantic.

Once. Not anymore.

But the ache in her chest didn’t quite agree.

That part of her, whatever still remained, had to stay buried.

She placed the letter on the bedside table and curled onto her side, the blanket drawn up to her chin. Tomorrow, everything would change.

And that, she told herself, was a good thing.

Wasn’t it?

***

The morning sun barely touched the high towers of Ballentine Castle, its light slanting across the stone corridors in long, thin beams. Deidra fastened the final buckle on her traveling cloak, her fingers trembling only slightly. She blamed the chill in the air.

The room was a mess of trunks and gowns and hurried decisions.

Deidra sat on the foot of her bed. She ought to feel excitement. A new life awaited her at the end of this journey. A new husband, a new future.

Instead, a strange hollowness sat heavy in her chest.

Deidra caught sight of herself in the polished glass across the room. Her own reflection startled her—the tight set of her mouth, the tense line of her shoulders.

This wasn’t the girl who had once dreamt of love matches and brought bright laughter into the castle halls. That girl had been left somewhere along the road of heartache, abandoned when her trust had cost her more than she dared remember.

Isla had love. Ewan had love.

And she—she had survival.

Perhaps Ewan had been right. Perhaps it was a hasty decision. But even if she could someday recover from all that had happened, the healing would take years. Years spent as a burden to her brother and his new wife, watching their happiness from the shadows of their generosity.

No. This was the only way.

Her brother’s protests, however well-meant, changed nothing. She wouldn’t become that pitiable spinster aunt, growing gray and bitter in some forgotten wing of his castle, forever defined by what had been done to her rather than what she might yet become.

The door creaked, breaking the heavy stillness.

“Deidra?” Isla’s voice, soft and tentative.

Deidra turned as Isla stepped into the room. In her hand, she held a small bundle wrapped in silk.

“I thought ye might want this,” Isla said, crossing the room.

Deidra took the bundle, unwrapping it carefully to reveal a tiny, stitched charm—an old Ballentine tradition, worn for luck and safe passage.

Her throat tightened painfully.

“Thank ye,” she whispered.

Isla smiled faintly and moved closer, reaching up to smooth a stray lock of Deidra’s hair away from her brow. Her touch was gentle, motherly. Deidra blinked fast, forcing back the sudden sting in her eyes.

“Ye’ll be alright,” Isla said, her voice low. “Ye’re stronger than ye think.”

Deidra swallowed and nodded.

A loud call from the courtyard interrupted them—the sound of horses being readied, the clatter of wheels against stone.

“Deidra!” Her brother’s voice, deep and tense, echoed up the stairwell.

Isla squeezed her hand and stepped back. “Go on, then. He’s waitin’.”

Deidra managed a trembling smile, clutching the charm tightly as she gathered her things.

When she descended the stairs, the castle felt unnaturally large and hollow, as if it too were bracing to let her go. Her steps echoed through the corridors, memories pressing close with every stride. Racing Ewan through the hallways as children. Her mother’s laughter drifting from the kitchens. The smell of fresh bread rising warm in the air.

The old oak doors swung open onto the courtyard, where the carriage stood waiting, its glossy black sides gleaming with dew.

Isla trailed behind her, settling behind Ewan, her golden braid slipping over one shoulder, her expression soft with concern.

Ewan’s gaze swept over her in a swift, assessing glance. “Everything packed? Naething forgotten?”

“Aye,” Deidra said, forcing a smile. “I’m ready.”

He didn’t smile back. His frown only deepened, carving hard lines into his handsome face. “There’s nay shame in changin’ yer mind.”

Deidra’s heart squeezed. She reached up and patted his chest, teasing to hide the sudden ache there. “Och, ye worry too much, braither. I am well. Everything is well.”

Even as the lie left her lips, she felt the way Isla’s keen eyes narrowed slightly, catching the faint tremor she couldn’t quite conceal.

Outside, the castle courtyard buzzed with muted activity—grooms adjusting the harnesses, servants bustling with last-minute preparations. A chill breeze tugged at Deidra’s cloak as she followed Ewan and Isla down the steps and into the open air.

Isla hugged her first, wrapping slender arms around her so fiercely Deidra had to blink back more tears.

“Be safe,” Isla whispered against her ear. “And if ye need anything send word, and we’ll come.”

Deidra squeezed her tightly, breathing in the scent of lavender that always clung to Isla’s hair. “I’ll be fine,” she murmured, willing it to be true.

Then came Ewan. His hug was less delicate. He held her for a long moment, his hand cupping the back of her head.

When he drew back, his eyes searched her face, and for a moment, she saw something raw there. Worry, fear.

“Are ye certain about this?” he asked, voice low. “About marryin’ Niall MacRae?”

Deidra straightened her spine, lifting her chin. “I am.”

Ewan’s frown deepened. “We dinnae ken much about him. He’s always hidin’, never comin’ tae the gatherings, meets, naethin’…”

“I ken,” she said softly. “That’s why he’s perfect.”

At their confused looks, she tried to explain. “I dinnae want tae have tae manage the man’s moods… he’ll nae expect that o’ me. He made certain I ken that…in his letters. If anything, he’ll likely be relieved if I keep tae meself. And so will I.”

Ewan’s brows drew together sharply. “Ye think livin’ like a ghost in someone else’s home is the life ye deserve?”

Deidra’s lips curved in a wry smile. “Nay. But it is the life I need.”

Isla’s hand brushed Deidra’s arm, her gray-green eyes warm with understanding. She said nothing. She didn’t need to. Isla knew too well what it meant to survive by building walls.

Ewan, however, looked as if he wanted to argue further. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“Ye deserve more,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Ye deserve happiness, Deidra.”

“I’ll find me own kind o’ happiness,” she said. “In me own way.”

She didn’t say aloud that she never wanted a man’s touch again. Not after Allan.

Freedom, independence, peace were all that she wanted. Niall MacRae, aloof and reclusive, would give her that without question.

It would be enough.

Ewan’s shoulders slumped, defeated. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “If he so much as looks at ye wrong, I’ll string him up by his entrails,” he muttered.

Deidra laughed, the sound a little shaky but real. “I ken ye would, braither.”

The driver called out that all was ready, that it was time.

Deidra turned back to her brother and Isla one last time and memorized them. Then she climbed into the carriage.

The wheels creaked into motion, and Ballentine Castle began to slip away behind her, piece by piece. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window and watched it go.

She had told Ewan the truth, that was what she wanted. But as the road stretched ahead of her, endless and unknown, a small voice whispered at the back of her mind.

What if ye’re wrong?

Deidra closed her eyes and let the rhythm of the carriage lull her into silence.

Soon, she would stand at the gates of another castle. Another life.

And whatever waited for her there—whatever Laird Niall MacRae proved to be—she would meet it head-on.

No fear, no regrets. She was done being afraid.

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Chapter One

The night had long since swallowed the road, the carriage’s lanterns casting a flickering light over the uneven path. Deidra sat rigid, one hand gripping the seat beside her as the wheels jolted over loose stones.

They were deep in MacRae territory now. Soon, they would reach the castle where her fate would be sealed in marriage to a man she had never met.

Deidra pressed her lips together, steeling herself against the uncertainty ahead.

She had imagined her wedding day a hundred times.

As a girl, she’d dreamed of lace and lemon cakes, of a groom who’d lift her veil with trembling hands. Later—after the dungeon, after the ropes, after Duncan Allan’s breath slithering down her neck—she’d prayed only for a man who wouldn’t touch her at all.

And she had found him—Niall MacRae.

The Barbarian Laird.

A man who, by all accounts, wanted a wife as little as she wanted a husband.

The carriage jolted over a rut, jerking Deidra from her thoughts. Outside, the Highland moors sprawled under a bruised twilight, the wind keening through the heather like a mourner’s lament.

She pressed a hand to the chilled window, her reflection ghostly against the glass—a woman clad in sensible wool, not satin; a bride without hope, without even a face to put to her groom’s name.

It’s better this way.

No expectations. No disappointments. Just a quiet life as Lady MacRae, where she’d be safe, and—if God was merciful—left alone.

The sharp whistle of an arrow cut through the night.

Deidra barely had time to gasp before the first arrow pierced into the carriage door, its iron head punching through the wood inches from her shoulder. The horses whinnied, the driver roared curses.

Nae again. Dear God, nae again!

Another arrow thudded into the wood near her window—close enough to feel the wind of its passing.

Is this how it ends? Nae at the altar, but sprawled in the mud with an arrow through me ribs?

The carriage lurched violently, tossing her sideways.

“Hold on!” the driver bellowed, snapping the reins again.

Deidra braced herself, knees bruising against the floorboards as the carriage careened faster. Logic warred with instinct.

Should I leap?

Her breath came in ragged bursts, her mind scrambling for control.

A rider surged alongside them, his sword glinting like a silver fang. For one wild moment, she met his eyes through the window—dark, ruthless, hungry. His hand clawed for the door, snapping it open and grabbing Deidra. Fear seized her, paralyzing her on the spot.

A horseman came barreling out of the trees his blade catching the dim light as he drove it into the enemy’s side. The rogue gave a strangled cry, toppling from his horse and letting Deidra go. She fell backwards, her elbow struck the wall, pain radiating up her arm, but she barely registered it.

A hand smashed through the other window, glass exploding inward. A gauntleted fist grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking.

“Ah—!” Pain ripped through her scalp as she was dragged toward the shattered pane. A man’s face, wild-eyed and grinning, loomed in the opening.

Duncan’s face. The cellar. The ropes—

Her vision tunneled, her past flashing before her eyes. She kicked, clawed at his wrist, but his grip was iron.

Then, a shadow blurred past the window, a sword hissed.

The hand in her hair vanished.

Blood arced, splattering the carriage walls. The attacker’s scream was cut short as a second strike crushed his windpipe.

Deidra gagged, scrambling back, her pulse a deafening drum in her skull.

Then the warrior was upon the next man, cutting through them him brutal precision.

Outside, chaos raged.

Horses reared, steel shrieked, and he moved through it like death itself.

More riders emerged from the darkness, clad in armor marked with the MacRae crest. Deidra’s heart pounded as she watched the battle unfold, her unknown savior fighting like a possessed man.

His strikes were swift, ruthless, each motion calculated in its savagery. One of the rogues attempted to flee, but the warrior pursued, bringing him down with terrifying ease.

Deidra could not tear her eyes away from him. He was unlike any man she had ever seen, a force of raw power and controlled fury, his movements exuding a lethal grace.

Who is he?

He fought without a sound. No battle cries, no taunts, just the sickening thud of his blade cleaving flesh, the crunch of bones under his boots. One attacker lunged—the horseman sidestepped, gutting him mid-stride. Another fled—he hurled a dagger into his spine without breaking pace.

Then, a third man, unnoticed, raised a crossbow, aimed at her.

Deidra’s body locked.

This is how I die…>

The horseman moved faster.

He leaped onto the carriage step, his bulk blocking the window just as the bolt slammed into his shoulder. He didn’t even stagger.

His hand shot through the air, seizing the attacker’s throat.

A snap and the man dropped.

Silence.

Deidra stared, her lungs burning. Blood dripped from the horseman’s fingers, his breaths ragged, his gaze locking onto hers through the ruined window.

The battle ended as quickly as it had begun. The assailants lay motionless on the road, while the MacRae riders regrouped.

The warrior turned to the carriage, his piercing, blue gaze locking onto Deidra through the broken window. His face was cast in shadow, but his presence alone sent a shiver through her spine.

He said nothing. Not a word of introduction or reassurance. Only a single command, spoken in a voice rough as the Highland winds.

“Bring her tae the castle.”

Deidra’s driver let out a breath and murmured low, “The Barbarian Laird.”

The words lodged in Deidra’s mind.

Was this truly him?

The carriage lurched forward again, but Deidra barely felt the movement. She pressed her palms flat against her thighs, willing them to stop shaking, nails biting crescents into her own flesh through the fabric.

Her stomach lurched. She’d expected a brute, a monster draped in pelts and scars. Not this… this towering force of muscle and rage, blue eyes burning like ice set aflame. Every strike of his sword had been brutal, efficient, beautiful in its lethality.

He’s nae human. He’s a storm given flesh.

When he’d grabbed that man’s throat—when she’d heard the snap—something primal in her had trembled. Not just fear. Something hotter. Darker.

And I’m tae be his wife?

The absurdity of it almost choked her.

She’d chosen him for his disinterest, for the rumors that he’d rather bed his sword than a woman. But the man before her now—the way his gaze had locked onto hers through the shattered window—there’d been nothing disinterested in that look. It had scraped her bare, peeled back every layer of pretense.

The pain grounded her—a small rebellion against the numbness threatening to claim her limbs. Outside, the wind wailed like a banshee, carrying with it the peat-smoke scent of distant crofts and the iron-rich tang of blood still clinging to the carriage wheels.

The castle loomed ahead—its torches flickering like the eyes of a waiting beast.

Deidra’s breath fogged the cracked window as she leaned closer, tracing the silhouette of her prison-to-be. Somewhere in those lightless towers, a life she had had to choose waited to claim her.

Her reflection in the glass startled her – a pale ghost with wild eyes, red hair escaping its pins like flames licking at her cheeks. She reached up with unsteady fingers, but changed her mind and let them fall.

What use is propriety now? The Barbarian Laird had already seen her at her worst—wide-eyed with terror. The memory burned worse than shame.

The wheels found smoother stone as they crossed the gatehouse threshold. Castle MacRae rose before her, a shadowy outline cutting through the dull, overcast sky. It was enormous, its ancient stone walls towering like an unyielding bastion against the harsh weather.

The Ballentine Estate had been impressive, but this—this was on an entirely different scale. The spires soared upward, their sharp peaks vanishing into the dense, swirling fog, while the heavy iron-bound gates offered no semblance of warmth or invitation.

I surely hope the house isnae a mirror o’ what just happened.

She had expected a reception—perhaps a cluster of servants awaiting her arrival, a steward to lead her inside, some token of acknowledgment that she was about to become the mistress of this place.

He made it plain as day in his letters he’s got nay interest in me, but surely he’ll want tae meet me, willnae he?

But there was no such gathering. Instead, only a single figure stood near the entrance, half-shrouded in the gloom.

He was a man with silver hair, clad in thick wool, his weathered face lined with age and hard years. He had the stance of a soldier, broad-shouldered and sturdy, and when she met his gaze, she saw nothing but keen, assessing eyes that missed nothing.

“Lady Deidra,” he greeted, his voice a deep rumble like distant thunder. “I am Bhaltair Cameron, Tacksman o’ Castle MacRae an’ right hand tae the laird. We’ve been expectin’ ye.”

His voice held neither warmth nor coldness—it was carefully balanced, deliberate, as though he were quietly assessing her.

Deidra felt the weight of his scrutiny and instinctively straightened her posture, her shoulders pulling back and her chin rising a fraction. She met his gaze with a quiet firmness, determined not to let him see even a flicker of uncertainty.

Will he nae come tae see me himself?

“I thank ye, Tacksman Cameron.” She tried to keep her voice steady, though the weight of the castle’s presence pressed heavily upon her. “Shall we go in?”

Bhaltair nodded once, then turned on his heel without another word. She followed, her boots clicking against the icy stone, the cold seeping through her soles.

What am I daeing here?

The thought clawed at her, but she dismissed it—she couldn’t afford to second guess herself now. But still, she felt like a fool, standing in this fortress of stone and shadows, chasing a future that was uncertain at the least. Her chest tightened with anxiety, a gnawing sense of dread that had been growing since she’d first locked eyes with her future husband.

This was a mistake. A terrible mistake.

As they entered the great hall, the first thing she noticed was the sheer vastness of the space—and the emptiness.

A fire burned low in the hearth, but it did little to warm the cavernous chamber. Shadows clung to the corners, shifting as if they had weight, and the air itself was thick, the stone walls dark, lined with old banners and antlers. This was a place built for war, not comfort.

This isnae a home.

The hall was not entirely empty—maids and servants lingered in the shadows, their figures partially obscured by the flickering, dim light of the torches lining the walls.

She had come so far, driven by duty and a faint, foolish hope that perhaps this arrangement could be more than just a transaction. But now, standing in this lifeless hall, she felt like an intruder, an outsider in a world that had no place for her

None of them moved to greet her. Instead, they stood still, their eyes fixed on her with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. Their hushed murmurs wove through the air, soft and insidious, like the tendrils of smoke rising from the crackling hearth.

The weight of their collective gaze pressed heavy on her. It was as if they were waiting to see how she would navigate this unfamiliar territory, as they whispered to each other.

She imagined their exchanges. “Is she daft, comin’ here? She daesnae ken what she’s walked intae. The poor lass.”

Deidra clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to turn and meet their stares head on.

She had heard the rumors long before she set foot on MacRae lands.

The Barbarian, they called him. A man more beast than laird, one who ruled those lands with an iron fist. Some said he was cursed. Others claimed he simply did not care for oaths, nor for a wife forced upon him.

After what she had seen, she knew the truth lay somewhere between. Still, she had gone there to do what duty required of her, not to cower before stories whispered in dark corners.

Bhaltair strode ahead, ignoring the murmurs, his pace unhurried but firm. Near the stairwell, a woman stepped forward. She was fair-haired, her brown eyes steady but wary.

“This is Catriona,” Bhaltair said. “She’s tae be yer maid. She’ll show ye tae yer chambers an’ help ye find yer way about the castle.”

Deidra nodded, her sharp gaze studying the woman before her.

Catriona was petite, her light brown hair catching the faint glow of the torchlight as it framed her delicate features. Her green eyes, though calm and steady, held a quiet intensity that seemed to see far more than she let on. She carried herself with an air of grace and confidence, her posture poised yet unpretentious.

Catriona dipped her head respectfully, her expression composed, but no smile touched her lips.

No one had smiled at Deidra since her arrival, and the absence of warmth only deepened the unease that clung to the air.

“Ye’ll need a keen mind and a strong spirit here, me lady,” Bhaltair added, meeting Deidra’s gaze with something close to warning.

With that, he turned and left, his heavy boots echoing against the stone as he disappeared into the shadows.

Deidra exhaled slowly. The castle was colder than the wind outside.

She turned to Catriona. “Show me tae me chambers please.”

The maid nodded, leading the way up the winding stairwell.

“She daesnae ken what she’s in fer,” she thought she heard.

But Deidra was beginning to suspect she would soon understand.

By the time they reached her chambers, the weight of the castle’s silence had grown oppressive. Deidra stood in the center of the room, her eyes sweeping over the space, as Catriona bowed her head and left her alone.

The fire in the hearth crackled. The room was grand, with high ceilings, thick tapestries, and sturdy wooden furniture, but it felt foreign and stiff, as though the walls themselves were resisting her presence.

She crossed her arms, her gaze lingering on the shadows that danced in the corners, and wondered if she would ever feel anything but an outsider within these stone walls.

She moved towards the window, pressing her hands against the stone ledge as she gazed out over the rugged landscape. Castle MacRae sat upon a great hill, surrounded by dense forests that stretched toward the horizon. The land was wild and untamed, much like the man she was to marry. A man she had never seen and, by all accounts, cared little for this marriage and even less for the woman bound to it.

The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit. She had told herself that was what she wanted—no expectations, no romance, only the security the union would bring.

Yet at that moment, standing in the very place where she would live as his wife, a strange unease curled in her belly.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. Catriona reentered with an air of quiet efficiency, carrying a basin of steaming water. She placed it beside the large wooden tub that had been set before the hearth.

“Yer bath is ready, me lady,” Catriona said, her voice measured, her expression unreadable.

Deidra nodded and turned from the window. “Thank ye.”

Catriona moved about the chamber with a practiced ease, adjusting the linens on the bed and setting out a fresh gown for the feast.

Though she had been tasked with looking after Deidra, she seemed in no rush to pry or make conversation, and for that, Deidra was grateful. The weight of the day had already consumed her.

After Catriona finished her tasks, she gave a small nod. “I’ll return shortly tae help ye undress.”

Deidra hesitated before speaking. “Have ye served here long?”

“Aye, me whole life.” Catriona’s gaze flickered to her, and for the briefest moment, Deidra thought she saw something there—pity, perhaps. But it was gone as quickly as it came. “Rest while ye can, me lady. It’s best tae be well-prepared fer the feast tomorrow.”

With that, she slipped out of the room, leaving Deidra alone once more.

Deidra undressed, slipping into the warm water with a sigh. The heat did little to soothe the tension in her limbs. As she leaned back against the curved edge of the tub, she let her thoughts drift.

The rumors of her husband-to-be swirled in her mind.

She had heard the stories—of his ruthless skill in battle, of how he had secured Castle MacRae when it looked like his enemies were going to destroy him. A man feared by his enemies and respected by his men.

But what of her—his wife to be? Was there anything beyond the hardened warrior left for her, or had war and duty left nothing behind?

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply.

I will find out soon enough.

***

The warm scent of lavender and rosewater still clung to Deidra’s skin as she slipped out of her chamber, the hem of her nightgown slightly touching the cold stone floor.

The castle loomed dark and silent around her, the torch sconces casting long, flickering shadows along the walls.

At first, her steps were slow and cautious as she followed the familiar path toward the main hall. She was looking for the kitchens, which were usually nearby. But the castle seemed to have a will of its own, its corridors twisting in ways she couldn’t remember. Faded tapestries and dusty portraits lined the walls, their stern eyes following her as she moved. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of mildew and old iron, as she walked further.

She reached a fork in the corridor. One path led back to the main hall, its torchlight steady and warm. The other was stretched into darkness, its sconces sparse and the flames flickered weakly.

Against her better judgment, she chose the darker path.

The walls were bare and damp, the air biting cold. She pulled her shawl tighter, her steps quickening as the faint sound of dripping water echoed ahead. Passing a shadowed alcove, she thought she saw movement—a flicker in the corner of her eye.

Her heart leapt. She turned, but there was nothing. Only the guttering light of a dying torch and the relentless drip, drip, drip growing louder. She hadn’t meant to wander this far, only to familiarize herself with her new home, but the hush of the corridors, the distant crackling of unseen hearths, and the occasional draft slithering past her bare arms sent a shiver through her.

The castle seemed to breathe around her, its ancient stones exhaling cold and damp into the air. She paused, her hand brushing against the rough wall for balance, and listened. The silence was so complete that she could hear the faint rustle of her own nightgown as she moved.

She heard a sound so faint she almost thought she’d imagined it. A low, guttural groan muffled but unmistakable, like the cry of a wounded animal. Her heart stuttered, and she froze, her breath catching in her throat.

The sound came again, louder this time, raw and pained, as if wrenched from someone’s very soul. It echoed through the hall, bouncing off the stone walls, making it impossible to tell where it originated.

Daes someone need help?

Deidra’s pulse quickened, her mind racing. She should turn back, retreat to the safety of her chambers. But something compelled her forward, a morbid curiosity or perhaps a foolish sense of duty.

She took a hesitant step, then another, her bare feet silent against the cold stone. The corridor ahead was darker, the torches spaced farther apart, their flickering light casting eerie shadows that danced along the walls.

The groan came again, clearer now, and she followed it, her steps quickening despite the dread pooling in her stomach.

What is happening?

Her heart thudded in her chest. She should pretend she had never heard it. But her feet moved before her mind could reason with them.

The corridor stretched ahead, endless and dark, the sconces fewer in number the farther she went. The groan came again, clearer this time. She followed it, step by hesitant step, her pulse roaring in her ears. Finally, she reached a heavy wooden door, slightly ajar, with the faint glow of candlelight spilling from beneath its frame.

Deidra hesitated. She ought to turn back. Whatever lay beyond was not meant for her eyes, but something about the sound, the sheer anguish in it, made it impossible to leave. Summoning her courage, she rapped her knuckles against the wood.

Silence.

She knocked again. Nothing.

Swallowing, she placed her palm against the rough surface and pushed. The door creaked open, revealing a room cast in the dim glow of several flickering candles. The scent of burning tallow and something coppery filled her nose. A large wooden table stood in the center, strewn with maps and parchments, a half-drained goblet of wine sitting precariously near the edge. The fire in the hearth had burned low, its embers pulsing red like the dying heart of a beast.

But the room was empty.

Deidra stepped inside, her breath shallow, her fingers curling against her palms. Another groan came, this time from behind her. She whirled around, but there was nothing. Just the stone walls lined with ancient tapestries, their once-vibrant threads dulled with age. And yet…

The sound came again. From the wall itself.

Her pulse pounded. Was there a hidden passage? A chamber beyond the stone? She stepped closer, placing a tentative hand against the cold surface. Beneath her fingertips, the rock was uneven, almost as if…

A sharp intake of breath from behind the wall made her stumble back. The sound was unmistakably human.

Panic clawed at her throat.

Deidra turned on her heel and bolted, her nightgown billowing behind her as she rushed into the corridor. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she ran. The castle’s shadows seemed to stretch and twist around her, the flickering torchlight doing little to dispel the suffocating darkness.

She had no idea what—or who—could have made that sound, and she had no desire to find out. Not like this.

The corridor stretched ahead, darker than before, the stone walls swallowing every flicker of light.

Her mind raced. Had she imagined it? Was it just the creaking of an old castle settling into the night? Or had something—or someone—been in there with her?

The thought sent a shudder through her, but she forced herself to keep moving. Her fingers brushed against the rough stone wall for balance as she rounded a corner, the sensation of being watched prickling at the back of her neck. She froze.

The dim torchlight cast long, warped shadows against the ancient stones. There was no sound—no footsteps, no breath—but the silence was heavy, oppressive, as if the castle itself was holding its secrets just beyond her reach.

A faint, indiscernible noise came from behind her.

Not a footstep, not a whisper, but something that sent a jolt of ice through her veins. Her breath hitched, her pulse a violent thrum in her ears.

It could have been nothing. The wind shifting through the halls, the groan of timber settling beneath the castle’s weight. But the uncertainty clawed at her, destroying the last of her composure.

Panic seized her limbs before reason could take hold, and she bolted. The corridor stretched endlessly before her, shrouded in darkness, the walls closing in with every hurried step. Her lungs burned, her heart pounded, but she didn’t slow—she couldn’t slow.

She stumbled to a halt, gasping for air, but before she could take another step, something—or someone—grabbed her arm.

Chapter Two

A shiver ran down Deidra’s spine and her breath came in quick, startled gasps, her pulse hammering against her throat.

The hand on her arm was firm, steady, undeniably strong. But it was not the pressure that made her lightheaded—it was the heat, the undeniable presence that stole the air from her lungs.

The man beside her stood tall, broad-shouldered, his frame draped in a dark coat that did little to mask the powerful build beneath. His face, half-shadowed in the flickering torchlight, was striking—almost severe.

A strong, chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and a mouth set in a firm line. But it was his eyes that held her captive—an arresting shade of sapphire blue, glowing in the dark, pinning her in place as though they could strip away every layer of her composure.

It was him.

This was the man she was to marry—the Barbarian Laird.

Good heavens, he’s… handsome. The thought slipped unbidden into her mind, startling her. She hadn’t expected him to look like at up close—so striking, so utterly commanding.

“How did ye come tae be here?” His voice was low, edged with suspicion, yet smooth as aged whisky, pouring over her senses with dangerous ease.

Deidra swallowed hard, willing herself to steady her breath. “I—me name is Deidra,” she answered, her voice softer than she intended, betraying the thrum of her pulse. “Deidra Ballentine.”

The moment she spoke her name, his grip slackened, and he took a deliberate step back.

His expression remained unreadable, his features carved from stone, but the intensity of his gaze never wavered. It was as if every ounce of his focus was fixed on her, making her too aware of herself—of the way her heart raced, of the heat creeping up her neck.

Stop it, she scolded herself. This isnae the time.

For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw a shadow of something softer in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or even guilt. But it was gone before she could be sure, replaced by that same adamant focus.

He didn’t speak for a few moments, didn’t offer an explanation, but the way he looked at her, the way he seemed to hold himself just a fraction too still, suggested an apology he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—voice.

“Deidra.” He repeated her name as though he was testing the weight of it on his tongue. A pause, then a slight inclination of his head. “Yes, we had an unfortunate encounter before. Forgive me. I had nae expected ye tae wander so far.”

Her mind reeled, struggling to catch up with the whirlwind of sensations that held her captive. Her breath hitched, her pulse racing as if trying to outrun the storm of emotions crashing through her.

He stood before her like a force of nature, his presence commanding. Every line of his posture spoke of absolute authority, of a man who demanded obedience without uttering a word. And his eyes—those piercing, sapphire eyes—cut through her like shards of ice, cold and insistent, yet impossibly captivating.

She should have been afraid. She was afraid, in a way, startled by the intensity of his gaze and the way it seemed to strip her bare, leaving no room for pretense or defense. But beneath the fear, beneath the shock, something else stirred, a pull she couldn’t ignore, a magnetic attraction that defied reason.

She forced herself to break from his gaze, lest she forget to breathe.

She lifted her chin, trying to mask the way her heart thundered beneath her ribs. “What gives ye the right tae handle me so?” she demanded, the tremor in her voice betraying her.

He watched her, his expression unreadable, but there was something darkly amused in the way his lips curled. “Ye need nae worry, lass,” he said, his voice deep, rich, and smooth as aged whisky. “I’ve nay intention o’ grabbing ye again. That would hardly be appropriate, given the deal we’ve made.”

This is the man I’m bound tae marry? The thought sent a strange mix of dread and excitement coursing through her. There he stood, larger than life, impossibly commanding, impossibly… breathtaking. But he was right—they had a deal, a deal that explicitly stated he was not to touch her, ever.

Deidra had never imagined him like that. The tales had spoken of a warrior, of a man hardened by battle and duty, but they had not spoken of the way his presence consumed the space around him.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a strength that was evident in every line of his form. His hair was dark as midnight, tied back in a loose knot, though several unruly strands had escaped, framing a face that was all sharp angles and rugged beauty.

A warmth spread through her, slow and insidious, curling low in her stomach. It was utterly maddening.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to ignore the way her hands itched to reach out and trace the rough line of his jaw, to see if his skin was as warm as she imagined. “Ye should have announced yerself instead o’—o’ manhandling me.”

He smirked, and the way it softened his otherwise imposing features sent another unwelcome shiver down her spine. “And ye should nae be wandering these halls alone. It is a dangerous thing, tae go places ye dinnae yet understand.”

She scowled. “I am nae some reckless child.”

“Nay,” he agreed, tilting his head slightly. “Ye are something else entirely.”

His gaze drifted over her, slow and intentional, and heat prickled along her skin. She did not know if she wanted to step away or press closer—to demand he look at her like that again, to allow herself to drown in the way it made her feel both powerful and weak.

“I—” she hesitated, searching for words, though her thoughts were an unraveled mess. “I lost me way. I thought tae return tae me chamber.”

His gaze flickered to the door behind her, then back to her. “This part o’ the castle is nae often traversed at night.”

“Aye,” she whispered, her voice breathless despite her best efforts. “I gathered as much.”

His lips twitched, just barely, as though amusement warred with restraint. Then, without another word, he turned away, motioning for her to follow. “Come.”

The simple command sent a thrill down her spine.

It was not the word itself, but the way he said it—with an authority that left no room for question, and yet with an ease that was almost effortless. She stepped forward, falling into step beside him, acutely aware of every inch of space between them. Or rather, the lack of it. His nearness was a force unto itself, a magnetic pull that left her thoughts scattered and her heartbeat erratic.

They moved through the dim corridors, their footsteps the only sound save for the occasional flicker of candlelight against stone. Deidra could not stop herself from stealing glances at him—at the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his coat shifted over broad shoulders, the sheer presence of him.

She had never considered herself the sort to be affected by a man’s appearance, so this she could not explain.

“I had thought tae meet ye in a more formal manner,” he murmured at length, his voice pulling her from her thoughts. “Nae chasing ye down a dark corridor.”

Her cheeks warmed despite the cold. “Had I known ye were tae be me escort, I might have reconsidered me course.”

He cast her a sidelong glance, unreadable and yet—intensely aware. “Would ye?”

She hesitated. There was something in the way his voice dipped just so, that made her stomach tighten. A test, perhaps. A challenge.

“Aye,” she admitted, though the truth was more complex. She had fled the shadows of the castle only to find herself ensnared by something far more perilous—him.

“Ye should nae wander alone,” he said, and though the words carried a warning, there was something else there too—something almost possessive of her, despite it not making any sense.

She nodded, though she knew it was a lie.

If given the chance, she would wander again. She would seek the darkened corners of this place, not only for the sake of adventure, but for the chance of encountering him once more like this.

He did not speak immediately. Nor did she. The air between them had thickened, charged with something they both seemed to feel. It was madness, surely. She had known him mere moments, and yet—

Deidra took a steadying breath, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Something was said about a feast?” she asked, grasping at the change of subject like a lifeline.

He nodded. “Aye. Ye’ll be introduced tae the clan tomorrow, after the wedding. It would be best if ye spent tomorrow preparing yerself, rather than sneaking about the castle.”

Her jaw clenched. “I was nae sneaking.”

He only raised a brow, as if the argument amused him.

Deidra huffed, turning away before he could see the warmth rising to her cheeks. This was infuriating. He was infuriating. And yet, the moment she stepped away, she felt the loss of his nearness like a physical thing.

She had known it would be difficult. A marriage of arrangement was never simple, never easy.

But she had not been prepared for it—for the way his presence made her forget herself, for the way her body reacted without her permission. It was unfair, truly, how a man like him could wield such power without even trying.

And worse, she hated how much she had liked it.

Niall studied her for a long moment, his sharp gaze lingering, as if he saw something in her that she had not yet recognized herself.

At last, they arrived at her chamber. She stopped just outside the door, and so did he—his broad frame filling the narrow corridor as he turned to face her fully. For the first time, she had no choice but to meet him head-on, to truly take him in. And it was almost too much.

The candlelight played wickedly over the angles of his face, casting him in warm gold and deep shadow. He was not just handsome; he was breathtaking in a way that was wholly unfair.

His strong jawline, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the faint stubble that shadowed his face—all of it came together in a way that made her breath catch.

How is it possible fer someone tae look like this?

Her pulse quickened despite herself.

He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before his gaze flicked to the door behind her. His brow furrowed, and a flicker of something—frustration? anger?—passed over his features.

“Who told ye this was yer room?” he asked, his voice low and edged with a sharpness that made her flinch.

Deidra blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in his tone.

“I—I was shown here earlier,” she stammered, her voice wavering slightly. “One o’ the maids brought me here when I arrived. She said it was tae be me chamber.”

His jaw tightened, and he took a step closer, his presence overwhelming. “Yer chamber,” he repeated, the words clipped. “And who, exactly, gave the order fer that?”

She shook her head, confusion and a flicker of unease creeping in. “I dinnae ken. I thought it was ye—or someone acting on yer behalf. Was it… nae?”

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze narrowing as he stared at the door as though it had personally offended him.

Then, with a sharp exhale, he turned back to her, his expression darkening. “This isnae yer room,” he said firmly, his voice like steel.

Deidra’s eyes widened, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Oh, I—I dinnae ken. The maid must have made a mistake.”

“A mistake,” he echoed, his tone dripping with skepticism. He took another step closer, his towering frame forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

She swallowed hard, her mind racing.

What is wrong with this room? “Dinnae trouble yerself,” he said, though his tone was anything but reassuring.

With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, his boots echoing sharply against the stone floor.

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A month earlier.

Alina Cameron entered the drawing room to see her mother and father waiting upon her. They had sent a servant with a message for her to go see them, but for the life of her, she could not imagine why. She was certain she wasn’t in trouble, for a change.

Being the wildest of their three daughters, and not caring a wit what other people thought of her, she often found herself caught up in situations her younger sister, Moira, had to help defend her from. Her mother blamed her wildness on the color of her hair, for while Alina was slender, she was strong, with striking, thick, auburn hair that hung down her back.

“Please, come in, Alina. Sit down,” her father said.

He was a tall, athletic man, for he often trained with his war chief and the soldiers of the clan and thus was in fine shape for a man of his age. He was also a serious man, and so, as he stood at the mantle, gazing across the room at her, Alina wasn’t surprised to see his usual contained expression.

Her mother remained seated on the sofa. She was a quiet woman, subservient to her husband, always following his lead. Hugh and Eleonor Cameron were laird and lady of clan Cameron. They were both respected and loved by all the clan members, even if her father could, at times, be a little harsh.

Alina lowered herself down beside her mother with an expectant expression.

“Ye wished tae see me.”

“Indeed, we did,” her father replied. “We have something o’ importance that we need tae discuss with ye.”

“Am I in trouble?” Alina pressed.

“Nae at all, dear,” Eleonor said, reaching out a hand and taking Alina’s with a smile.

“As ye ken, Lilly has been married some time now, and thus, ye are the next young lady o’ the household.”

Alina’s older sister, Lilly, had been married off to a man nearly twenty years her senior. Not only was she miserable, but on each occasion she had come home to visit, Alina had noticed her older sister’s spirit slowly breaking under the weight of a loveless marriage. It had cemented Alina’s fear of being forced into the same fate. And yet, growing up as a noblewoman, she had always known her future was never truly her own.

She worried where the conversation was going.

“I willnae bore ye with the details, but clan Mackintosh is under threat from clan Campbell, and thus, Laird Mackintosh has reached out tae us fer help.”

Dread began in Alina’s stomach, for she now had a good idea why she had been beckoned.

“And what has that got tae dae with me?” Alina asked, knowing the answer before she even asked the question.

“It has everything tae dae with ye, child.”

She hated it when he called her ‘child’. She was a grown woman of twenty years. She had not been a child for a long time.

“Meself and Laird Mackintosh have already been in correspondence for several weeks, and have agreed tae engage in talks about an alliance…”

Nay. God. Nay!

“… and thus, it has tae dae with ye, Alina, fer it will be yer marriage tae Laird Mackintosh’s son that binds it.”

Her greatest fear washed over her like the wave of a stormy sea, and for a second, she found herself breathless. She was to suffer, just like Lilly. Her life, her freedom, her wild carefree ways were over, just like that. She would be bound to a man for the rest of her life, and there was not a single thing she could do about it.

But from somewhere deep within her, the desire to fight emerged. She could not give in just like that. It simply wasn’t in her nature to do so. As her fear morphed into anger, she glared at her father with a near uncontrollable rage.

“And that is it? I have nay say in the matter?”

Her father gave her one of his stern glares, while at the same time, her mother squeezed her hand.

“Sometimes, we have tae make sacrifices fer the greater good, my dear,” she said softly.

Yanking her hand away, Alina jumped up from the sofa and glared at the two of them.

“I dinnae want tae make sacrifices. Lilly made sacrifices, and look at how her life has turned out. Why is it always the women who have tae make these sacrifices?”

“Alina!” her father barked.

“Nae!” she retorted. “I willnae dae it.”

And then, without waiting for her father’s reply, she spun on her heels and ran from the room. Dashing through the corridors, she ran up the wide stair case and bolted into her bedchamber, slamming the door behind her.

Her throat had already begun to tighten, and then, seconds later, sobs burst from her chest as she threw herself onto her bed. Her whole life had come crashing down around her in a matter of mere moments, and so overwhelmed by her fate was she, she could not hold back the utter grief that racked through her body.

She had no idea how long she cried for, but it felt like hours. At some point, Moira came into the room, and wrapping her arms around her sister, she had offered her words of comfort. Clearly, she had been sent by their mother, for Moira already knew why she was upset.

“I’m so sorry, Alina. Truly, I am.”

But all her sisters’ words of kindness, as soft and caring as they were, brought Alina no relief. This was the thing she had feared since she was old enough to know how those things worked. No matter what she said, or how much she didn’t want it to happen, she would have to go through with it.

Her outburst earlier would be ignored, and she would be forced to do as her father demanded.

“We will run away,” Moira whispered, while Alina’s face remained buried into her soft pillow, soaking the linen with her sobs. “We will run so far that nay one will ever find us.”

But they both knew Moira’s words were empty. They could no more run away from their family, than Alina could choose her own suitor. Neither sister desired marriage. Lilly’s misery was clear to see. In fact, the change they had witnessed in their older sister had scared Alina and Moira to death. Lilly had not been wild, like Alina, but she had been confident in herself. A woman who knew what she wanted. Since her marriage though, she had become a shell of her former self, and hardly recognizable to her sisters.

So terrified of facing a similar fate had Alina and Moira been, that soon after Lilly’s wedding, the two had made a pact.

Sitting together on Alina’s bed, they had entwined their little fingers together. Looking intently into each other’s eyes, Alina had said, “We will avoid marriage, Whatever it takes.”

“Whatever it takes,” Moira had repeated, nodding her head vigorously.

Neither had thought they needed to worry for a few years, but clearly, fate had other ideas. Alina would now be torn from her home, her family, her sister. She would be forced to move into a new home with people she did not know. Forced to marry a stranger, she would be expected to be happy with her lot.

But she was not happy. How could she be when her heart was now broken into a million pieces?

“What am I tae dae?” she sniffled, when the tears finally abated.

Moira could only hold her tightly, for she no more had the answer to that question than Alina.

Three weeks later, Alina and Moira were readying themselves to travel to Moy Hall, the home of Laird and Lady Mackintosh. But before they bid farewell to their mother and father to make the journey, Alina found a quiet moment to spend with Moira and repeated the pact.

“I dinnae care that I am tae be sent tae Moy Hall, or that I am tae be forced tae wed. I am going tae dae everything possible tae ruin this union, Moira. Remember. Whatever it takes.”

“Whatever it takes,” Moira repeated once more.

Alina was not going to be like her sister. She was not going to be a pawn to be used in a game where her father decided her fate. She had been wild and free all this time, and she was determined she would remain so.

Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!

Chapter One

November 1714,
Journey to Moy Hall, Scottish Highlands

“Please, Moira,” Alina pleaded, gazing at her younger sister with soft eyes, as though that might help her cause.

Sitting across from her in the carriage, Moira firmly shook her head. “Absolutely nae. It is me necklace and ye cannae have it. I dinnae ken why ye’re so eager fer it. Ye have many beautiful ones o’ yer own. The one ye are wearing now is stunning.”

Absently, Alina lifted her hand to her throat, as though she had forgotten what was there. “Och, ye ken I have always wanted that necklace.”

“And every time ye ask, fer ye must have pleaded with me a hundred times or more, the answer remains the same. This is me favorite and I willnae give it tae ye.”

“Spoilsport,” Alina pouted, pretending to be annoyed, even as a smile danced in her eyes.

Moira giggled then, her sharp green eyes glistening with delight.

Alina smiled widely at her sister, even as she shook her head. “It is a good job I love ye, little bean.”

“Och, please tell me ye’re nae going tae call me that when we get tae Moy Hall,” Moira gasped. “I will be mortified.”

Little bean had been the nickname Alina had given her sister from the moment Moira could walk. With only two years between them, Alina had still been tiny herself. That seemed so long ago now, for her twentieth birthday had passed only a few months before.

“I swear,” Alina placed her hand on her heart. Visible relief washed over Moira’s face. Right until Alina’s next words. “Well, nae in public, at any rate.” She beamed a huge grin.

“It’s all right fer ye,” Moira pouted. “Ye glide along with effortless confidence. Naething bothers ye.”

“Being forced tae marry a stranger bothers me,” Alina countered with a firm look, sweeping her long, thick auburn hair behind her shoulder.

Moira sighed. “Och, well. There is that.” And then she smiled. “But I ken ye’re nae going tae mak’ it easy fer him.”

Moira knew her too well. She had no intention of going into this circumstance willingly. In fact, since they had left their father’s castle, three days ago, Alina had been scheming how the devil she could get out of this union. Kieran Mackintosh may well have been the future laird of his clan, and while she was expected to one day become Lady of the castle, she knew that by the time she was finished with him, he was going to be nothing more than a distant acquaintance.

When she had first discovered she was to be sent to clan Mackintosh as part of the peace negotiations being offered up as a pawn to bind the clans together, Alina had been shattered. She had cried for hours, and not left her bedchamber for four days. Even her sister’s warm words of sorrow had brought her no comfort.

“We will run away,” Moira had whispered, while Alina’s face had been buried into her soft pillow, soaking the linen with her sobs. “We will run so far that naeone will ever find us.”

But they both knew Moira’s words were empty. They could no more run away from their family, than Alina could choose her own suitor. Not that either sister desired marriage. Their older sister, Lilly, had been offered into marriage, forced to wed a man nearly twice her age and her misery was clear to see. It scared Alina and Moira to death. So much so, that soon after Lilly’s wedding, the two had made a pact.

Sitting together on Alina’s bed, they had entwined their little fingers together. Looking intently into each other’s eyes, Alina had said, “We will avoid marriage at all costs.”

“At all costs,” Moira had repeated, nodding her head vigorously.

They had bid farewell to their mother and father to make the journey they were currently on, and whilst travelling, Alina and Moira and repeated the pact.

“I dinnae care that I am tae be sent tae Moy Hall, or that I am tae be forced tae wed. I am going tae dae everything possible tae ruin this union. Moira, remember. At all costs.”

“At all costs,” Moira had repeated once more.

Now, as the carriage trundled over rough tracks, rocking back and forth as it continued, Alina was as determined as ever. While he thought he was meeting his future wife, Alina had other ideas. In fact, her only goal for this visit was to drive Kieran Mackintosh as far away as possible.

“If he thinks I’m going tae get tae ken him, he’s in fer a surprise. I’m going tae mak’ this so difficult, the man willnae want tae be anywhere near me,” Alina declared, her golden-hazel eyes sparkling with determination.

“This is a contract, Alina. Ye cannae just drive him away.”

Moira’s voice was level, as always. Clever, cautious, and fiercely independent, her sister always preferred strategy over confrontation. As loyal as Alina knew Moira was to the pact, her sister was also the steady, pragmatic one.

Well, Alina was not. While she carried herself with grace, she rarely behaved as a demure noblewoman ought to. In fact, those kinds of confines frustrated her, and, much to her parent’s chagrin, she was often found doing anything she could to carve out her own path. A path of independence and individuality. The kind of restless energy and the antics that were borne from it was the reason Moira was always having to find ways to get her sister out of trouble.

“Och, but I can,” Alina said, a sly smile dancing at her lips. “Just watch me.”

Again, Moira laughed and shook her head. “Ye are incorrigible, dae ye ken that?”

“Perhaps, but never boring,” Alina quipped back.

This remark sent the women into fits of giggles.

“I decree that we mak’ another pact,” Moira announced. Looking at Alina with a mischievous grin, she continued. “If ye can really make Kieran Mackintosh refuse the betrothal in the time we are there…”

“A month,” Alina confirmed.

“Aye. A month.” Moira nodded. “If ye can dae that, ye can have this silly old necklace.”

“Really?” Alina gasped, her eyes dancing with excitement.

“Really,” Moira said. Then she held her little finger out. “Whatever it takes.”

Alina leaned forward in the carriage, entwined her little finger around Moira’s and looked her sister in the eye. “Whatever it takes.”

For a long moment, the sisters sat back in their seats, just looking at each other. A challenge was on the table, the air felt charged. And the prize? The long sought-after necklace. But the prize was so much bigger than that. The real prize was Alina’s freedom. Living a life she desired on her own terms.

Could it be possible?

But just as she was beginning to determine ways and means of making it possible, a thunderous sound of horse’s hooves danced on the air outside.

“What the devil is that?” Moira said, lurching forward to look out of the window.

Alina leaned forward too, and the sight before her sent a panic across her entire body, for two men on horses were approaching at great speed.

“Och, God.”

She spun her head to look out of the other window, only to see another two coming from the opposite side.

“Who are they?” Moira cried. “What dae they want?”

“Naething good,” Alina replied, trying to hold the tremor from her voice. “We’ll be fine. We have four o’ Faither’s best soldiers with us. They’ll protect us.”

Her words were more for Moira’s benefit, for she could not know, given the even numbers, how this was going to play out. Nor did she have time to think about it. The men were soon upon them, and though they could hear much yelling, the sisters could see nothing of what was happening up ahead.

They did, however, hear the following and very distinct sound of swords, the clanging of the metal ringing out across the glen. The carriage then came to a stop, and Moira went into an even bigger panic.

“Och, may the gods help us,” she wailed, “fer we’re surely tae be killed.”

“Just stay down,” Alina ordered, pulling Moira to the floor of the carriage. “I’m going tae see what’s happening.”

“Nay!” Moira cried. “Dinnae leave me.”

“I’ll be right back. Just stay low.”

“Alina.”

But Alina ignored her sisters’ pleas, and, opening the carriage door, she started to slip outside. The sound of swords clashing continued as she tiptoed ahead to see what was going on. If she and Moira would need to run, they would do so, but first, she wanted to know how bad things really were.

Just then she felt herself being grabbed. She gasped in terror and looked at the man who had grasped her arm. He was filthy and dressed in rags and she could smell his foul breath on her. Her snarled at her and pulled her towards him, but then one of her father’s men suddenly attacked him from the back. She screamed as she saw the guard’s sword pushing out of his stomach and watched him slump over. She was so shocked she couldn’t even thank the man who had saved her, but he was already busy turning to fight off another bandit.

She ran behind one of the horses of their carriage for cover and watched the frightful scene. Her father’s soldiers were fighting with all their might, but the bandits, seemed to be pushing the soldiers back. As she continued to watch, fear washed over her. Things looked like they were going to end very badly. Just as she was about to turn and hurry back to the carriage, a sound caught her attention, the same sound as earlier; thundering hooves crashing against the ground.

More are coming?

Her heart thumped in her chest as she peered out over the glen, where she was surprised to see a lone rider galloping in their direction. With a loud battle cry, he unsheathed his sword, and, to her further astonishment, he attacked the men that were attacking her father’s soldiers.

She could hardly take her eyes off him, for not only was he swift of sword, he was undoubtedly the most strikingly handsome man she had ever seen in her life. Blonde hair was tied at the back of his head. He was as broad as a door, his muscular frame difficult to ignore. Even mounted upon his horse, she could see he was tall, and while he wielded his sword in her defense, she could not help but feel mesmerized by his striking jawline and defined cheekbones.

With renewed vigor, thanks to the energy with which this man attacked, her father’s soldiers fought back even harder. As a result, sensing they were both outnumbered and outdone, the bandits retreated, galloping at great speed in the direction they had first come from.

Relief washed over her, but she was also feeling something else as she gazed up at their savior. Her heart thumped for a very different reason, for never before had she been so struck by a man’s actions and appearance.

Only after the bandits were out of sight did the man turn to speak to the soldiers, but as he was about to, he caught sight of Alina.

Frowning deeply, he said, “What the devil are ye daeing? Ye should be in the carriage where ye will be safe.”

As handsome and attractive as he was, Alina did not appreciate his tone, and lifting her chin, she said, “Who dae ye think ye are, speaking tae me in such a manner?”

Dismounting, he approached her.

“Me name is Kieran Mackintosh, son o’ Laird Mackintosh o’ clan Mackintosh.”

Alina swallowed a gasp as her whole body swayed. She gazed into his stormy gray eyes while feeling her heart drop to her stomach.

“And ye are?” he pressed, given that Alina struggled to respond.

“I am Lady Alina Cameron,” she said, finding her voice and pride at the same time. “And I dinnae appreciate being ordered about by a stranger.”

Kieran Mackintosh’s eyebrows hitched. “Me lady,” he said. “Ye are on the way tae Moy Hall.” His words and expression betrayed his surprise, for clearly, he too had come to their rescue not knowing who it was he was defending.

“We are.”

“Ye are me betrothed,” he said in the same taken aback tone.

“I am,” she replied again.

For a second, neither of them said anything. This was not exactly how Alina imagined their first meeting would go. But then, nor had she imagined she would be so affected by the man she was being forced to marry.

He broke the tension first.

“It is best if ye return tae yer carriage, Lady Cameron. I will escort ye and yer people the rest o’ the way.”

“Thank ye,” she replied, for she could think of nothing else to say.

Kieran accompanied her to the carriage and opened the door. His eyes widened at the sight of Moira crouching on the floor.

“Everything is fine now,” Alina reassured her. And with a look only Moira would understand, she said, “This is Kieran Mackintosh. He came tae save us.”

Moira was already on her feet. At the sound of his name, her jaw fell open. She then looked from Kieran to Alina and back again.

“Oh,” was all she could manage.

Kieran then offered Alina his hand to help her back into the carriage. “Me lady.”

His hands were rough, no doubt from his ability to wield a sword so very well. They were also large and warm, and nearly swallowed her hand whole.

“Thank ye,” she said, once she was seated.

He nodded once, closed the door, and then disappeared.

The girls sat in silence for a long while. Moira just stared quietly into nothing, her eyes as wide as saucers. Her hands were clasped together and she was clenching and unclenching them nervously. Alina reached out a slightly trembling hand to comfort her, and her sister gratefully took it and squeezed it.

They travelled like that, holding hands, for a while like longer, letting their heartbeat slow down and their nerves calm. Then Forsythe called down into the carriage. “We have almost arrived, I can see the castle ahead.”

Both Alina and Moira let out a sigh of relief and leaned out of the window to admire it. They commented on it and slowly started conversing again.

“So that is yer betrothed?” Moira said, a smirk upon her lips.

“Apparently,” Alina replied.

She might have said more, but she was still too stunned about everything that had happened to really answer.

Dinnae kid yersel’. Ye like him.

She did her best to ignore her inner dialogue, and instead, listened to Moira who was already gushing.

“Did ye see him?” she was saying, her eyes still wide.

“I did,” Alina replied, trying not to laugh at her sister’s astonishment.

“He’s so handsome. And he’s yer betrothed. The one ye’re going tae marry.”

Those words pulled Alina up short, for the conflict sat deeply in her stomach. Indeed, she was determined not to be forced into marriage, but the striking man who had saved them, and the feelings he had already evoked in her, were certainly going to make that all the more of a challenge.

“We are here.”

There in front of them were the tall gates of the castle walls, which yawned open at their approach. A moment later, they were travelling through neatly cut lawns and tall trees on either side of them.

The castle was large enough, though Alina imagined no larger than her father’s. The main house was flanked with two wings on either side. Windows reached up for three stories, though she imagined, just like home, there were servants’ quarters in the roof.

When the carriage came to a final halt, Alina looked at Moira, and her sister looked back.

The door opened, and a servant stood there waiting for them. As the sisters stepped out, they saw the second carriage that had followed behind. It contained both their maids and all their luggage.

A second later, a very well-dressed man and woman about the same age as her own parents were there to greet them.

“Och, it is so good tae finally meet ye,” the woman said. “I am Lady Kira Mackintosh.”

“And I am Laird Alec Mackintosh,” the man beside her said.

Alina was a little surprised at the laird’s appearance, for she had never seen a man of his stature wearing his long, blond hair wild and loose as he was. He was a large man, broad and tall, with a warm and welcoming smile.

Lady Mackintosh was slender, her brown hair pinned to her head in two braids. Her eyes were a soft blue, and while she appeared welcoming, Alina immediately sensed that there was a strength about this woman.

The woman squeezed Alina’s shoulder gently, while looking kindly at Moira as they all entered the castle. Alina could not help but look behind her, for she expected the arrival of Kieran Mackintosh at any moment. However, he was nowhere to be seen.

“I’m sure the two o’ ye must be half-starved,” Lady Kira added. “I will send for refreshments straight away.”

“And tired,” the laird said, with genuine concern in his eyes. “That is quite some journey. Did ye have any trouble on the way?”

Alina’s mind was working overtime. She had decided, after making the pact with Moira, that she was determined not to like anyone who had a say in this ridiculous arrangement. And yet, already, she was warming to the laird and lady, and they had hardly been in their presence for more than a minute.

“Actually,” Moira said, “we were attacked on the road.”

“Och, me God,” Lady Kira gasped.

Moira was nodding. “It’s true. Only fer the arrival o’ yer son, we might nae have arrived at all.”

“Our son?” the laird frowned.

Their guests were leading them down a corridor when someone walked around the corner. The laird immediately addressed the man, but Alina barely took notice of his words, for she was astonished. She was certain Kieran had not made it into the castle before them, and yet, there he was, standing before them. Immediately, however, she sensed something different about him, although she could not put her finger on what it was.

Eventually, Alina pulled herself back to the moment, just as the laird was turning toward her and Moira.

“…they are only arrived. What wonderful timing.” The laird turned and with an outstretched hand, he said, “Lady Cameron, I would like tae introduce me son. It is actually a surprise he is here.” The old man smirked. “Usually, he’s off galivanting across the country someplace or other.”

But Alina was confused, for they had just told the laird that this man had saved them. Why was he now introducing him? She was utterly confused, to say the least. Had it not been for him, however, she and Moira might not have been there at that moment. The least she could do was show her gratitude.

“Thank ye again fer saving us,” Alina said. “If it wasnae fer ye, we might never have made it here at all.” She forced a smile. “I suppose it’s one way tae meet yer betrothed.”

A flash of confusion crossed Kieran’s face, and then, the laird suddenly jumped in.

“Me goodness. What a fool I am. This isnae yer betrothed, me dear. This is his braither, Devon. I dae beg yer pardon. I introduced him without telling ye his name.” He then turned to speak to Devon. “Lady Alina and Miss Moira were attacked on the road. Apparently, only fer Kieran’s bravery, did they escape unscathed.”

Devon frowned. “But ye are all right?” he asked.

Alina’s consternation had now reached crazy levels. No one had told her that her betrothed had a twin brother. They were identical in almost every way. Though, it did explain her earlier feeling.

“We are. Thank ye,” Alina eventually replied, trying to maintain her composure.

He beamed a wide and charming smile at her. “Good. I’m glad tae hear it.”

“Come,” the laird said. “We will relax with refreshments in the drawing room. I’m sure ye both could dae with a wee dram after such an ordeal.

The laird took the lead, with Devon and Lady Mackintosh following behind. Devon and his mother began conversing, leaving Alina and Moira to follow at the rear.

“Well, I’ll bet ye werenae expecting that,” Moira said quietly, so the others ahead couldn’t hear them.

Alina was still struggling to come to terms with the development when she shook her head. “Nay,” she said absently. “Indeed, I wasnae.” Shaking herself, she continued. “He’s as handsome, but there’s something different about him. I reckon he’s a charmer, and has all the lasses hanging on his every word.”

“Ye should be careful. Yer betrothed might be exactly the same.”

Alina cast her sister a sideways glance. “And what if he is? I dinnae care if he’s bedded half the castle.”

Moira opened her mouth to speak again, when a voice came from behind them.

“Ye need nae worry. I havenae bedded half the castle.”

Alina and Moira both spun around to see Kieran Mackintosh standing behind them. Heat flooded Alina’s entire person, from the soles of her feet to the top of her head at her words being overheard by the man she was going to marry, of all people.

“Och, I…” she gasped.

Alina looked to her sister for help, but Moira was as useless as she, for she was standing with her mouth gaping open, looking like a dead fish.

“Er, I… er,” Alina floundered, her face feeling hot as coal, while the man before her just watched on in what looked like amusement.

“What me sister means,” Moira said, the fish now back to life, “is that… whatever happened before daesnae matter…” But Moira had clearly not recovered either, and her rescue mission was in vain.

Taking a deep breath, and trying to swallow her mortification, Alina eventually gathered herself.

“O’ course, ye havenae. We were just making a little lightness out o’ this whole ordeal.”

It was a poor and pathetic excuse that likely did not fly at all, but she could think of nothing more to say.

“Indeed,” he replied. Kieran then gestured with a nod. “It appears ye are being waited upon.”

When Alina and Moira turned to look, the laird, Devon, and Lady Mackintosh had all stopped a little further up the corridor.

Och, me god! Did they hear all that?

And in that second, Alina’s mortification only multiplied.

“Ah, there ye are, Kieran,” Laird Mackintosh declared, making his way back toward them. He came to a stop at Alina’s side.

“I hear it was only because o’ ye that the ladies arrived in good health. Well done, son.”

“It was naething,” he replied, clearly not comfortable with his father’s praise.

“It was far more than naething,” Alina pressed, still trying to steady her thumping heart.

“Indeed. I agree,” the laird said. “Let us convene in the drawing room, fer I am certain we could all dae with a drink.”

Alina did not follow straight away, and understanding her sister’s desire, Moira also held back, allowing Kieran to walk ahead and join his father.

When they did eventually continue on, Moira leaned in closely to her older sister.

“Well, that was just awful.”

“I think I now want tae die,” Alina replied.

Moira gave her sister a curious look. “So, is yer plan still on?”

Alina hitched her eyebrows. “Why wouldnae it be?”

“Well. Look at him,” Moira gushed. “Besides, he did save us from certain death.”

Alina rolled her eyes. “We cannae ken that. Faither’s soldiers may well have fought them off without his assistance.”

Moira lifted her eyebrows, expressing her disbelief that Alina actually thought that was true. Her sister knew her well.

“This changes naething,” she said. “Carved by the gods or nae, in a month’s time, Kieran Mackintosh will be running fer the hills praying he never had tae set his eyes on me again. As fer me and ye, we will be on our way home, victorious after being saved from an unwanted union.”

But even as those words left her lips, Alina knew she had a battle on her hands. She was supposed to ruin this union, and yet, Kieran Mackintosh had already made an impression she could not ignore.

Chapter Two

It had only been good fortune that Kieran had been out riding, or he would never have come across the bandits attacking the two carriages. It had been four against four, but the men defending had been struggling before he arrived.

Once the battle was over, he had been astonished at the sight of a woman standing beside the horses. A rather beautiful woman at that. Kieran had had to swallow back his reaction at her appearance. She was slender yet shapely, but he was more struck by her bright auburn hair. It was long and thick and fell in waves around the soft pale skin of her face.

He had been floored even further, however, when he had discovered her identity. Not that he wasn’t expecting his betrothed to arrive that day. But he certainly wasn’t expecting to see a lass like her. It also happened that her locks reflected her personality. Free and wild and spirited.

“Who dae ye think ye are, speaking tae me in such a manner?”

Not only her words, but the way in which she had said them had taken him off guard, for no woman would dare speak to him like that. He already had his reservations about this arranged union, and her attitude certainly wasn’t helping.

Once back at the castle, after he had ridden around the grounds to check that everything was safe, she had surprised him further with her comment of not caring if he had bedded half the castle. A fact that could not be further from the truth, not due to lack of interest from the ladies, but to the lack of interest from his side.

Kieran had not been ready for the words that had left her mouth. It was only good fortune that he had been behind her, and thus, she had not seen his initial reaction. A reaction that consisted of his mouth dropping open in shock. Steeling himself, he had snapped it closed, something he was glad she had not witnessed.

When the group gathered in the drawing room, refreshments were served. Laird Mackintosh talked about how positive the alliance was going to be, strengthening both clans, and Kieran and Devon joined in here and there.

Lady Cameron showed only a mild interest, and remained in the room only as long as propriety dictated. Within the hour, she stood and excused herself.

“I hope ye dinnae mind, me laird,” she said, speaking directly to the laird. “But my sister and I have endured a long and rigorous journey. I would appreciate it if we could retire tae our room.”

“O’ course,” his father declared. “Yer maids are likely already there, but I will have someone escort ye directly. Ye’ll want tae be well rested fer the feast we are throwing this evening in yer honor.”

Ten minutes later, the lasses had left the room with a servant and Kieran’s mother.

“Well, what dae ye think o’ her?” Laird Mackintosh asked, his eyes wide with eager anticipation.

Expressing to his father what he had overheard from Lady Cameron earlier might be a little inappropriate, even if there were only men remaining in the room. Furthermore, he was aware that his father was eager for this union, and Kieran did not want to disappoint him, thus he lied through his teeth.

“She looks delightful, Faither. I cannae wait tae get tae ken her better.”

Laird Mackintosh’s eyes opened with both surprise and delight.

“That’s fantastic tae hear, son. Fantastic.”

In his periphery, Kieran could see Devon smirking, but pretending he didn’t, he continued.

“The wheels are now in motion.”

“Indeed, they are, me son,” his father replied. “In fact, there is a council meeting this afternoon. Be certain tae be there. I must away tae me study, but I am sure I will see ye both later.”

When his father left the room, Devon’s smirk morphed into a full-on grin.

“She looks delightful, Faither. I cannae wait tae get tae ken her better,” he mimicked teasingly.

Kieran gave him a steady look. “What did ye want me tae say? That’s she’s a walking headache?”

Devon pushed himself off the mantle, and with a tone loaded with sarcasm, he said. “Och, nay, braither. I think ye sold it very well.” He paused a beat, and then said. “But now we are alone, what dae ye really think o’ her?”

Kieran relayed what had happened when he first came upon the attack, and then added Lady Cameron’s words at his arrival at the castle.

Devon’s eyes widened. “She’s a wild one.”

Kieran sighed. “Aye, like nae wanting tae get married wasnae enough.”

“Aye, well,” Devon countered, stepping further into the room and aimlessly wandering about. “Ye dinnae have a choice, braither. The council want ye tae marry, and thus, marry ye shall.”

Kieran swallowed down a sigh and shook his head.

“If ye’d have arrived intae this world a few seconds ‘afore me, it would be ye in me shoes, ye bastard,” he said with no heat at all.

“But I didnae, did I?” Devon grinned.

While the brothers both had blond, long hair and might look exactly the same, they were not alike. Not at all. Devon’s messy mane was longer and currently swung about his broad shoulders as he swaggered around the room in his usual easy-going manner.

In contrast, Kieran’s hair was always neatly tied back; contained, like himself. Devon liked to tease him about his seriousness, as did his parents on occasion.

Unlike his brother, he was calm, quiet, and, he supposed, could be seen as brooding.

“I still think they’re rushing intae this,” Kieran countered. “Faither is alive and well. I willnae need tae take on that mantle fer a long while yet.”

Devon gave him a look that expressed what both brothers knew.

“It has little tae dae with that, Kieran, and ye ken it. If Laird Campbell hadnae been killed by one o’ our own, his son wouldnae be so intent on revenge. And let us nae forget that his faither kidnapped our cousin! Madman!”

“Ye can hardly call him a madman, Devon. Would ye and I nae react in the same manner if our faither was slaughtered?”

Devon leaned against the mantle and gazed into the fire. Kieran was not surprised at his lack of reply. Both brothers knew his words to be true. Family and loyalty were all that mattered in a clan. Rory Campbell was only doing what any son might do under the circumstances. But of course, Kieran kept that opinion to himself. With the ongoing and aggressive feud between the Campbell’s and Mackintosh’s, few others would sympathize with his logic.

“Whether he’s right or wrong makes little difference, brother,” Devon eventually said. “The onus is now upon yer shoulders.”

“I dinnae need tae be reminded,” Kieran growled. “I ken we have tae make a good alliance with another clan tae safeguard our own. Only, I’m nae ready. It’s well for Maither and Faither. They think because their arranged marriage turned intae true love, it will be the same for me. Bollocks.”

Devon turned and grinned at his brother. “Och, ye dinnae ken. It might turn out well. She is stunning, if naething else.”

Kieran scowled. “She isnae a lass I can take tae me chamber and discard the next day. I cannae sleep with her and never see her again. I am marrying this woman. She is tae be me wife!”

Devon looked a little contrite then.

Kieran sighed and lifted a hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldnae take me frustrations out on ye. But I assure ye, it willnae work out as well as ye think. Besides, I’m too young tae be wed.”

“Ye are five and twenty!” Devon blurted. “That’s nae young at all.”

“It is fer me,” Kieran murmured.

“Right. Come on.” Devon moved to stand beside Kieran. “I think ye need tae clear yer head. Come and spar with me.”

A bit of fresh air might do him the world of good. Besides, he could get rid of the pent-up frustration that had sat in his gut from the minute he discovered he was to be betrothed.

“Fine,” he replied.

The brothers left the drawing room and wandered down the corridor side by side.

“Ye ken, I would tak’ this from ye if I could.” Devon grinned.

At that very same moment, a maid moved towards them coming in the opposite direction with a bundle of bedding in her hands. Devon beamed a grin at her.

“Hello, Kenna,” he said in a more than friendly manner.

The maid’s face lit up at the sight of him, and blushing and fluttering her eyelashes, she breathed a reply. “Master Devon.”

The lass flashed Kieran a quick glance, but her smile faltered as she pulled her eyes quickly away as though she were afraid of him. She gave him a little nod and a very quiet “Master Kieran,” before she scurried away.

Continuing on down the corridor, Kieran lifted an eyebrow. With his tone laden with sarcasm, he said, “Aye, course ye’d tak’ me place. I can see it now. Ye, a one-woman man.”

Devon burst into his usual loud laughter, before clapping Kieran’s shoulder with his hand. “Aye. Maybe ye’re right. I’ve rethought me offer. I’m going tae let ye be the sacrificial lamb.”

“Great,” he quipped back. “Thanks fer that.”

While Kieran kept his tone neutral, he hid his own demons. Demons that taunted him about his lack of capacity compared to his brother. For as long as he could remember, he had never felt enough where women were concerned. Being around lasses was effortless for Devon, and they loved being around him. He was far more open and outgoing. He had a way with them that Kieran knew he could never emulate.

Because ye’re too damned serious all the time.

But he couldn’t help it, it was just the way he was. Given the choice, the lasses would choose Devon every time, and who could blame them? Still, Kieran could not say that it didn’t bother him. He would never match his brother, not in that department, at any rate.

Once in the training area of the courtyard, the brothers unsheathed their swords.

“Ye ken, if ye were actually interested in getting tae ken lasses, that might help ye,” Devon said, swinging his sword back and forth to loosen his muscles.

“What are ye talking about?” Kieran frowned as he did the same.

“Och, come on, Kieran. When we travel tae the village together, ye barely look at them for more than tae take them tae bed, and ye never see them after. Ye never speak tae them.”

“Aye,” Kieran countered. “That’s because they’re all too busy swooning over ye tae converse.”

His brother shook his head. “Nay. It’s because I mak’ the effort. A lass needs some kind o’ sign that ye’re interested in her.”

“At least I am honest about what I want, I dinnae illude them” Kieran sneered. “And now I dinnae need tae charm one anyway, dae I? One has already been selected for me. She is in the castle as we speak.”

Devon shrugged and nodded. “Aye, well. There is that.”

The brothers moved around each other, beginning their training slowly. Their swords came together in hesitant movements to begin with, each testing the other. Devon was the first to lunge, forcing Kieran to defend. The swords clanged together, echoing around the cobblestone beneath their feet, and sounding off the walls of the stables and castle.

Kieran watched Devon’s approach. They had sparred so many times together, they knew each other’s tells. There were few surprises. Still, the training kept their wits about them, as well as keeping them in good physical shape. One never knew when an attack might arrive, either announced or unexpectedly.

“So, now she is here, dae ye feel ready?,” Devon said, defending a strike.

“Nope,” Kieran said flatly. “I might get lucky. Maybe if our faither and her faither sit down tae talk, they might hate each other.”

Of course, that was never going to happen, but he could wish it, for all the good it would do him.

His brother lifted his eyebrows. “But ye find her attractive?”

“O’ course, I dae. She’s a beautiful lass. But she’s also spirited and wild. Nae only am I being forced tae marry. It appears I’m marrying Andraste herself!”

Devon couldn’t hold his chuckle back. “I’m nae sure comparing yer future wife tae a warrior goddess is a good idea. At any rate, ye want tae be careful she isnae listening.” He nodded to the sky. “I think ye have enough on yer plate without inciting the wrath o’ one o’ the gods, dinnae ye?”

It was bad enough that he was being forced to get married to ensure the safety of the clan. Indeed, it was necessary. It was, after all, going to be the clan he would eventually rule. But the idea that this woman, as opposite to him as she was, would now upend his life was worse. And then, he remembered something that distressed him even further.

“And I am tae entertain her without any support,” he blurted.

Devon nodded knowingly. “Uncle Evander, Aunt May and our cousins are away tae visit Aunt May’s braither. They willnae return fer two weeks.”

“And Kathleen and Blaine are traveling,” Kieran added.

Kathleen was the daughter of their father’s brother. Only earlier that year, she and Blaine, a hired sword, had been thrown into their own battle. While Blaine had been assigned to look after Kathleen on her journey to a friend’s wedding, the two of them had fallen in love, much to the chagrin of Bran, her father.

Not only was Blaine more than ten years older than Kathleen, he was also a commoner. However, after an attack by clan Campbell, Laird Campbell was killed, the very reason they now had an enemy in his son, Rory. Blaine saved Kathleen’s life then and Bran finally granted them what they desired, the opportunity to be together. They had recently gotten married and had then decided to travel.

“Basically, half the family isnae home,” Kieran continued. “Why didnae Lady Alina Cameron wait a while ‘afore storming the castle? The last thing I need is tae have tae entertain a… stranger. Especially when I can be getting on with something far more interesting.”

“That stranger is going tae be yer wife,” Devon pointed out unnecessarily. “Besides, what could possibly be more interesting than entertaining a lass?”

“Counting sheep. Watching grass grow. Taking a long walk and forgetting me way back tae the castle,” Kieran said dryly.

Devon was now in stitches, and despite himself, Kieran couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. “Besides, we’re unevenly matched. Ye saw the way she was in the drawing room. She could hardly contain herself. I’ve seen her in action already. I’ll bet she’ll nae last a month.”

“Ye think she’ll leave?” Devon said, his eyebrows hitched in surprise.

“I dae,” Kieran replied confidently.

“If she’s as feisty as ye say,” Devon grinned, “I hedge me bets it’ll be ye who runs away first.”

“A bet ye would lose, me friend,” Kieran replied confidently.

His brother shifted his head and gave Kieran a long look. “All right. How about a serious bet fer a bag o’ gold.”

“What’s the bet?” Kieran said, now more interested. A bag of gold was no small amount of money.

“If ye can make Lady Alina fall in love with ye, and have her tell ye that she actually wants tae marry ye, then the gold is yers.”

“But that’s the opposite o’ what ye just said. A minute ago, I was running away according tae ye,” Kieran argued.

“I want tae see if ye can actually dae it.”

“Ye want me tae mak’ this woman,” he flung a hand at the castle, “fall in love with me? Nae a chance. It’ll never happen. It cannae be done. I will probably kill her on day one.”

Devon smirked. “True. I dinnae think ye’re up tae the task. Which means, I’ll keep me gold and ye can be miserable fer the rest o’ yer life.”

Kieran frowned at that last part. He didn’t relish the idea of a life spent with a wife he couldn’t handle. Surely, if he got her to feel something for him, there might be some compromise further down the road. For a long moment, Kieran eyed his brother, trying to work out if there was some kind of trick he was playing. But no matter which way he looked at it, the bet was plain and simple. Get Lady Alina to fall in love with him.

It cannae be that hard, right?

Eventually, he nodded. “All right. Ye’re on.”

“Really?” Devon blurted, surprised at Kieran’s change of heart.

“Really,” he replied.

Devon beamed a huge grin and threw out his arm. Kieran stepped forward and the men clasped their forearms together to seal the deal. Still holding Kieran in a tight grip, Devon smirked.

“This is going tae be fun. I hope ye ken what ye’re daeing, braither.”

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Two months earlier…

“She will be arriving any time now, and James is naewhere tae be found,” Laird MacGregor huffed, pacing back and forth in front of the fire in his study.

Edward had listened to his father ranting in great anxiety for the last hour. While he sounded frustrated, the old man was deeply worried. That concern had trickled throughout the entire castle, and now, there was a grave sense that James might not return at all.

Edward wished he could offer some words of reassurance to his father, but he too was worried. His older brother had now been missing for more than three weeks. He had heard word that James had been killed on his travels. He had not shared it with his father. No doubt, the men were too terrified of what his reaction might be. But Edward was certain the same thought had crossed the laird’s mind several times by now.

It was possible that James had met a dreadful fate, but Edward did not believe it to be true. He didn’t know how he knew his brother was alive. He just knew. There was a deep feeling in his gut. A sense of knowing that he couldn’t explain.

The brothers were close and always had been. James, being the older at eight and twenty, had always looked out for Edward when they were younger. But now, as grown men, they were also best friends.

Three weeks before, James had left the castle on a pilgrimage. It was a family tradition for the MacGregor men to travel from Port Mallaig to the island of Rùm. There, they received a blessing before getting betrothed. Baird and Kathryn MacGregor, their mother and father, were eager to see James wed so that the seat of the family would remain secure.

The Campbell Clan had been long-time allies. To strengthen that alliance, Laird Alistair Campbell and Baird had arranged a marriage between James and Alistair’s niece, Lady Evelyn Campbell in the weeks since James had left.

The night before his departure, the brother’s had spent a quiet evening together in James’ bedchamber.

Looking over the rim of his glass, Edward said, “Are ye nervous?”

They spent another hour talking about the journey, about how different things might be once James was wed. As the night came to a close, Edward stood and returned his glass to the dresser. The brothers hugged each other warmly, bid each other goodnight, and then Edward retired to his own bedchamber.

The next morning, he had waved his brother off in the knowledge that he would see him again soon. But James had not returned when he was supposed to, and since then, there had been scouts searching glen and forest to try to find him.

“What am I supposed tae tell the lass?” his father said, still pacing back and forth. Every now and then, he stopped, gazed out of the window in a contemplative moment, and then began pacing again. “She is expecting tae meet her betrothed.”

“Faither,” Edward said, making certain his tone was calm.

The laird stopped pacing again and turned to look at Edward, his expression betraying his surprise at his presence. It was as though he had forgotten his other son was sitting in the room. Perhaps he had thought he was talking to himself all this time.

“There is little ye can dae,” Edward continued. “Besides, Lady Evelyn daesnae need tae ken the truth just yet.”

His father considered that alternative for a moment. Then his brow furrowed deeply, the same deep brown eyes Edward shared with him looking even darker than usual. “Ye mean, I should lie tae her?”

Edward shook his head. “Nae exactly. Ye can tell her the truth. James did leave on a pilgrimage. Only, he has nae yet returned. She needs nae ken anything more fer now.”

Again, his father took a moment to think it through. Edward watched him expectantly, noticing that all this worry had made his father look a little older in the last few days. Light gray already threaded through his thick black hair, but it was the lines on his face, and dark shadows under his eyes that betrayed his distress.

“But the entire castle is in a panic, Edward. She is bound tae hear something sooner or later.”

Edward nodded. “I ken that. But fer now, we can appease her with the notion that James is on his way back. Just fer now, Faither. When James returns, all this will be over.”

The laird gave Edward a sympathetic look, as though he felt sorry for him.

“If yer braither returns, Edward. And I ken ye have kept yer faith that he will. But ye should ready yersel’ fer the possibility that he might nae.”

Shaking his head firmly, Edward replied, “I cannae entertain that notion, Faither.” Pressing his hand to his stomach, he continued. “I ken he is alive. I can feel it.”

His father’s expression did not change. Clearly, he did not want to thwart Edward’s hope, but it was also obvious that he did not share his son’s conviction.

“Let’s hope that yer gut is right, me son.”

Edward was about to reply that he knew it was, when a knock came on the study door.

“Enter,” his father bellowed.

The door opened, and a servant quickly made his way across the room. “A carriage is on its way, me laird. It is Lady Evelyn. Ye ordered that ye were tae be informed as soon as we kent o’ her arrival.”

“God’s teeth,” the laird spat.

Twenty minutes later, Edward was standing at the entrance of the castle, waiting for the carriage to trundle through the gates. While he leaned against the stone wall, his mother and father stood side by side, murmuring to each other. Edward didn’t need to guess the subject of their conversation. No doubt, they were fretting on how they were going to handle the situation.

Another five minutes passed and the gates of the castle yawned open. A few seconds after that, a carriage entered carrying the future Lady of clan MacGregor. The carriage finally came to a standstill outside the entrance, and a servant hurriedly stepped forward to open the carriage door.

Edward’s father and mother also stepped forward, while Edward remained where he was. He was only really there for moral support. After all, this was not his wife-to-be.

A second later, however, he found himself pushing his body off the wall and pulling at his clothes to straighten them, for the vision who exited the carriage was more than he could ever have expected.

She was draped in a velvet cloak of green. A green that highlighted her eyes, for they were the same color and seemed to sparkle as Edward’s father and mother greeted her. Her skin was the color of alabaster. It looked soft, and smooth, though there was a light blush on her cheeks. Her features were small and delicate, framed with long, golden blonde hair that caught the rays of the sun, for it fairly glistened, as though she wore a halo around her head.

Edward found himself entranced as she approached, flanked by his parents on either side of her.

“And this is me younger son, Edward,” his father said.

Suddenly, Edward blinked, pulling himself free from his mesmerized state, while at the same time, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

“Edward,” his father continued, “I would like tae introduce ye tae Lady Evelyn Campbell.”

Seeing her even more clearly did nothing to help his growing desire, for he eyed her slender figure, bound in the corset beneath her cloak. But trying to still his thumping heart, and failing miserably, he bent reverentially toward her.

“It is a pleasure tae meet ye, me lady,” he said. His voice surprised him for it was far deeper than usual.

Thank the gods she isnae likely tae notice, given we have never met ‘afore.

“Thank ye,” she replied. “It is nice tae meet ye, too.”

Even her voice sounded light and angelic. It was as though the gods had created her with their own hands.

“Let’s go inside,” the laird suggested, gesturing ahead. “I’m sure ye are quite exhausted from yer travels, me lady. But perhaps, some refreshments ‘afore ye rest.”

Lady Evelyn entered the castle with his parents and her maid, while Edward followed behind. He had initially imagined, once he had done his duty of meeting her, that he would leave his father and mother to entertain the lass, while also informing her of the situation regarding the absence of James. But he found himself pulled in her wake, almost unable to stop himself from being carried along by her presence.

Once in the drawing room, and after Lady Kathryn, Edward’s mother, had sent for refreshments to be brought, everyone seated themselves. Everyone but Edward, who chose to move across to the window, where he could observe the new arrival without her noticing.

“Will yer eldest son be joining us?” Lady Evelyn asked.

Edward cast a glance at his father, who immediately cleared his throat. “About that,” he began. “James is currently on a pilgrimage. It is a family tradition that the MacGregor men travel tae receive a blessing ‘afore their bride is chosen and they are wed. We are actually expecting him tae return any day now.”

Edward watched his mother fidget a little, but Lady Evelyn did not seem to notice.

“I see,” the beautiful lass replied.

“Ye dinnae have tae worry though,” his mother said in a reassuring tone. “We will tak’ good care o’ ye until he returns.”

Indeed, Edward would have loved to be the one taking care of her. In fact, at that very moment, he felt envy growing in him. Never before had he felt jealous of his brother. There had never been any circumstance that had the capability of eliciting such a feeling.

Not until now.

His brother’s bride was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid his eyes on. A woman, if she were his, that he would worship, care for, and love.

But she wasn’t his bride.

Instead, he would have to watch as his brother wed this lass. It may well be an arranged marriage, but in that moment, Edward concluded that James was going to be the luckiest man alive.

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