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.

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