Wed to the Sinful Scot (Preview)
Chapter One
The open seas between Islay and the Scottish mainland, September 1636
“Promise me ye’ll keep this close, mo chridhe.”
Mirren MacDonald wrapped her fingers around the leather-wrapped dagger her father pressed into her palm, the familiar weight of Highland steel both comforting and ominous in the salt-tinged morning air. The blade was exquisitely crafted – its surface etched with the MacDonald crest, though Mirren knew this was no mere ceremonial gift.
“‘Tis beautiful, Faither,” she said, though her voice carried none of the joy such a fine weapon should inspire. “But surely ye dinnae expect–”
“I expect naething but treachery from any Campbell that draws breath,” Laird Lachlann MacDonald growled, his weathered face unforgiving. The battle scars that crisscrossed his knuckles caught the morning light as his grip tightened on her shoulders with calloused hands that had seen decades of clan warfare. “Ye may be commanded tae marry the man, but that daesnae mean ye should trust him. Sleep with this beneath yer pillow, lass. And if he dares tae raise a hand tae ye, ye put that steel between his ribs and ask questions later.”
Mirren studied her father’s features, seeing the weight of forty years of clan warfare etched in every line around his eyes. The jagged scar that ran from his left temple to his jaw, a Campbell blade’s gift from his youth, seemed to pulse with old fury in the pale light. The morning breeze carried the scent of kelp and brine across the harbor, mingling with the smoke from the castle’s morning fires – scents that had comforted her throughout her three-and-twenty years on Islay. Now, they felt like a farewell.
“I promise,” she said, securing the blade to her belt beneath her traveling cloak. “But Faither, if ye truly believe Niel Campbell means me harm, why are we honorin’ the king’s command?”
Lachlann’s expression darkened further. “Because even an unpopular king’s word is law, and I’ll nae give the Crown reason tae bring English soldiers tae our shores.” His voice dropped to a dangerous rumble. “But that daesnae mean we’re sheep led tae slaughter. The Campbells think us island folk soft – they’ll soon learn different if they test MacDonald steel.” He tilted her chin upwards with his thumb and index finger, his roughened hands surprisingly gentle against her sun-bronzed cheeks. “Ye carry the blood of sea kings in yer veins – never forget that.”
A shout from the harbor drew their attention to where the MacDonald galley awaited, its blue and white banner snapping proudly in the wind. Sailors moved about the deck with practiced efficiency, preparing for the journey that would change everything.
“‘Tis time,” Lachlann said, though the words seemed to pain him. His jaw worked silently for a moment before he pulled her into a rare, fierce embrace that spoke of battles fought and wars yet to come. “The tide waits fer nay one.”
Mirren embraced her father, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and heather that had always clung to him.
Will I ever smell the heather of home again, ever?
“I’ll make ye proud, Faither. And if the Campbells think tae break me, they’ll find I’m made of the same steel that forges the Laird of the Isles.”
“If only Finlay could have come with ye,” Lachlann said roughly, his voice thickened by regret. “Yer braither would gut anyone that looked at ye sideways.”
Mirren’s throat constricted at the mention of her brother. Finlay had raged like a Highland storm when the king’s letter had arrived, but even he couldn’t defy royal command. “I ken he wanted tae sail with us,” she whispered. “But someone needs tae protect Islay if this is all a trap.”
Her father gave her a single, curt nod. “Now go show those mainland mutts what a true MacDonald looks like.”
Shortly after, the galley cut through the gray waters of the Scottish coast with steady purpose, each stroke of the oars carrying Mirren farther from everything she’d ever known. She stood at the stern, watching Islay grow smaller until it became nothing more than a dark smudge against the horizon, her fingers unconsciously tracing the outline of her concealed weapon.
Every league takes me closer tae me cage.
“Me lady?” Una’s gentle voice broke through her melancholy. “Ye’ve been standin’ there fer near an hour. ‘Tis nae like ye tae be so quiet.”
Mirren turned to face her maid and dearest friend, managing a weak smile. Una’s brown eyes were warm with concern, her light hair whipping about her face in the sea breeze. At six-and-twenty, Una had been with Mirren since they were both girls, and she knew her mistress better than anyone.
“I’ve naething cheerful tae say, Una. What would ye have me speak of – the joy of bein’ sold tae our clan’s greatest enemy? The pleasure of leavin’ everything I love fer a marriage tae a man who probably wishes me dead?”
Una moved closer, lowering her voice so the nearby sailors couldn’t overhear. “Ye dinnae ken that, me lady. Perhaps Laird Campbell is different from what ye’ve been told. Perhaps–”
“Och, and perhaps he’s precisely what every wretched Campbell has been fer forty years,” Mirren interrupted, her green eyes flashing while the wind lapped at her reddish-auburn hair. “Nay more than a schemin’, power-hungry brute who’d slit me throat in me sleep if it served his clan’s interest.”
“Then why would the king command such a union?”
Mirren laughed bitterly. “Because King Charles thinks he can forge peace through forced marriages, as if hatred that’s been bred intae our bones fer generations can be simply washed away with weddin’ vows.”
Una was quiet for a moment, studying her mistress’s face. “I’ve never seen ye without a tale on yer lips, me lady. Even durin’ the darkest times, ye always found stories tae lift spirits and bring hope. Where are they now?”
The question struck deeper than Una had probably intended. Mirren had always been the keeper of her clan’s stories, the one who could weave words like magic and make the past come alive around a fire. But what story could she tell now? What hope could she find in being bartered away like cattle?
“Me stories are fer those who have reason fer hope,” she said finally. “I fear I’ve little of that tae spare.”
“Sail ho!” the cry from the crow’s nest cut through their conversation like a newly whetted blade. “Ship approachin’ from the north!”
Mirren’s heart lurched as she turned toward the horizon where a dark speck was growing larger by the moment. That had to be the Campbell vessel – the ship that would complete her journey into exile.
“‘Tis them,” she whispered, her hand instinctively moving to her dagger’s hilt. “The Campbells.”
Una squeezed her arm gently. “Remember, me lady, yer faither sent his finest men tae guard ye. Ye’re nae alone in this.”
The approaching ship grew clearer as it drew near, its sails full of wind as it cut through the choppy waters. Mirren tried to steel herself for whatever came next, but her stomach churned with more than just seasickness.
“Somethin’s wrong,” said Hamish, one of her father’s most trusted men-at-arms, as he approached with his hand resting on his sword hilt. “That ship’s nae flyin’ colors.”
Before anyone could respond, the thunderous boom of a cannon split the morning air like the roar of an ancient Highland beast. A heartbeat later, the sea erupted in a violent geyser just off their starboard bow – water and foam exploding skyward in a deadly fountain that crashed down across the deck, soaking them all in icy brine.
“Attack!” Hamish’s voice cracked like a whip above the chaos. “We’re under attack! All hands tae arms!”
The galley lurched violently as another cannon ball screamed overhead, the wind of its passage so close that Mirren could feel it ruffle her hair. The massive iron sphere crashed into the water beyond them, sending up another towering spray that painted the air white with salt mist.
Chaos broke out all over the deck. Sailors ran in all directions, some crawling behind barrels and masts for shelter, and others sprinting to the weapon stores with fear written all over their faces. The quiet morning had turned into a nightmare of shouting, pounding feet, and the horrible smell of cannon smoke wafting over the sea.
Mirren grabbed Una’s arm, her fingers digging into the wool of her maid’s sleeve as she pulled her toward the galley’s center.
Blessed Saints, is this really happenin’?
Another thunderous blast echoed across the waves, and this time, the iron ball found its mark – smashing into their port rail with a sound like the world splitting apart.
“What’s happenin’?” Una cried over the mayhem.
“Must be the Campbells!” Mirren quipped, fury replacing fear as understanding dawned. “Strikin’ like cowards with nay flag. The bastards mean tae kill me on neutral seas, before I ever reach their lands. They’ll claim it was pirates!”
Hamish appeared at her side like an avenging angel, his broadsword already singing in his weathered grip, the steel gleaming with deadly purpose. “Me lady! We need tae get ye tae safety… if they mean tae board us–”
His words were severed as a grappling hook bit into the galley’s hull with metallic shrieks that scraped against wood and iron. The enemy ship had closed the distance with terrifying speed, and now thick ropes stretched between the vessels like the web of some monstrous sea spider.
Steel rang against steel as the first wave of enemy warriors swung across the gap and onto the planks beneath Mirren’s feet – wild-haired men with murder in their eyes and blood already splattered across their leather jerkins. They landed on the MacDonald deck with predatory grace, their battle cries splitting the air like the howls of Highland wolves.
“Protect the lady!” Hamish roared, his voice nearly lost as he parried a vicious sword thrust. His blade caught the morning light as it carved through the air, opening an attacker’s throat in a spray of crimson that painted the deck planks scarlet.
The MacDonald sailors fought with desperate courage, but they’d been caught unprepared. Men all around them started to fall, some screaming as Highland steel stabbed their flesh and others falling without a sound. Blood and seawater made the deck slick, turning it into a horrific battlefield that shook and pitched with every wave.
Mirren pulled out her blade in one smooth move, and the unused steel hissed as it came out of its leather sheath. She might be a political pawn, but she was still a MacDonald. She would be damned if she walked meekly into whatever dark fate awaited her.
The first enemy soldier who reached her swiftly learned that Highland lasses were not entirely helpless. The scarred brute with missing teeth and a rusted dirk lunged at her with a snarl of anticipated victory. Mirren sidestepped his clumsy thrust with the grace of someone who’d danced since childhood, then drove her father’s gift deep between his ribs. The man’s eyes widened in shock as steel pierced leather and found his heart. He dropped with nothing more than a wet gurgle.
One down, she thought grimly, already spinning away from another attacker.
How many more tae go?
Una screamed as a wild-eyed warrior with a notched axe bore down on them, his weapon raised high enough to split a skull.
“Una! Stay close!” Mirren shouted over the din of battle as one of the MacDonald sailors intercepted the attacker. She grabbed the maid’s trembling hand. “We need tae reach the boats!”
All around them, the battle was raging with brutal fury. The sound of metal crashing against metal created a horrific cacophony, accompanied by the cries of the injured and the thuds of dead bodies on the deck. The metallic smell of blood and the sour smoke from the enemy ship’s cannons filled the air.
Mirren knew their predicament was hopeless and even as she fought her desperation grew. Whoever was attacking them had arrived well-prepared for battle, leaving her father’s warriors bewildered and unable to mount a coordinated defense. Corpses, both enemy and MacDonald, lay strewn about the deck like fallen leaves; the boards were stained scarlet from the combination of blood and salt spray.
Mirren could taste the copper on her tongue.
We’re all goin’ tae die here…
Then, cutting across the chaos like a Highland drum calling warriors to battle, she heard it – the distant blast of another ship’s horn echoing across the water. The bow of a third ship was slicing through the water like a dagger through silk as it drew dangerously close. From its deck, screams of war resounded as armed men readied themselves for combat, their weapons shining like dangerous stars in the early morning light.
“Look there!” Una pointed through the billowing smoke toward the new arrival, her voice quivering with frantic hope. “More sails! But I dinnae ken whose side they’ll take.”
On the deck of the approaching ship, Mirren caught sight of a commanding figure directing men with sharp, decisive gestures that spoke of battle experience. Even at that distance, there was something about his presence that made her breath catch – the way he moved with predatory grace, the manner in which his warriors responded to his every command like a pack following their leader.
The tall warrior’s broad shoulders moved with lethal purpose, his dark hair wild in the sea wind, and even from here she could see the controlled power in every gesture he made. He stood like a Highland god of war made flesh – tall enough to tower over his men, with the kind of masculine presence that could command a battlefield or silence a great hall with a single look.
Who is this man who commands such loyalty?
The battle raged on with increasing ferocity, steel whipping and slashing in a deadly dance as the newcomers prepared to join the fray. Blood painted the deck in abstract patterns of violence, and the groans of the wounded created a horrible chorus beneath the ring of weapons.
A bearded giant with a two-handed sword came at Mirren like death incarnate, his massive blade whooshing through the air with enough force to cleave her in half. She threw herself backward, feeling the wind of his strike ruffle her hair as the steel passed close enough to shave whiskers.
Too bloody close!
Chapter Two
“The dinghy!” Hamish bellowed over the chaos, his sword painting arcs through the smoky air. “Get the lady tae the dinghy! Now!”
Mirren felt rough hands seize her arms as two of her father’s most trusted men – Ewan and Duncan – hauled her away from the spreading panic. Around them, the MacDonald galley had become a floating battlefield, with enemy warriors pouring across the deck like a plague born from steel and fury. The choking smell of burning wood and tar filled her nostrils, tinted with the metallic scent of blood that seemed to now coat everything.
“Me lady! This way!” Ewan shouted, his face grim as he pulled her toward the stern where their escape boat waited. Blood splattered his leather jerkin from a dozen small wounds, but his grip remained strong and sure. “We need tae get ye safely off this ship afore–”
His words were cut short as an enemy axe whistled past his ear, close enough to trim his beard. The warrior who’d thrown it snarled as he reached for another weapon, his eyes gleaming with bloodlust and the promise of easy coin. But Duncan’s blade found his throat first, opening it in a spray of arterial blood that made Mirren’s stomach churn.
“Move!” Duncan commanded, stepping over the twitching corpse without a second glance. His sword dripped red as he scanned for more threats. “The whole bloody ship’s afire!”
He was right. Mirren could smell the putrid smoke billowing from the galley’s belly, could see orange flames licking hungrily at the rigging above like demons reaching for heaven. Someone had set fire to their stores, and now, death approached from blade and flame and ocean. The heat was already making the air simmer, and she could hear ominous creaks as the timber blazed around her.
Una stumbled beside her, tears streaming down her face as she clutched at Mirren’s cloak with white-knuckled fingers. “Me lady… why are they tryin’ tae kill us?”
“Because someone wants this alliance tae fail,” Mirren said, her green eyes blazing with fury as another enemy warrior charged toward them through the smoke. The man moved like a carnivorous beast, his sword gleaming with fresh blood.
But who? Surely nae the Campbells… maybe another clan entirely?
Ewan’s sword met the attacker with a sound like thunder, steel swooshing against steel in a deadly dance. The enemy was skilled – a scarred brute with arms like tree trunks – but Ewan had been fighting Highland battles since before Mirren was born. His blade found the gap in the man’s leather jerkin, sliding between ribs to pierce his heart.
They reached the dinghy just as another section of the ship’s rigging collapsed in a shower of sparks and burning rope, the flames spreading like wildfire through the Highland heather. The small boat hung suspended over the churning waters beneath them, secured by thick hemp ropes that creaked eerily with each wave. Below them, the dark sea churned like a witch’s cauldron – foam capped waves reaching upward like grasping fingers.
“Get in, me lady!” Duncan commanded, helping her over the rail with hands that shook despite his warrior’s training. The boat rocked dangerously as the waves shifted its balance. “Una! Hurry!”
Mirren dropped into the narrow boat, her knees hitting the wooden planks hard enough to bruise. The dinghy was smaller than she’d expected – barely large enough for four people, with rough-hewn seats and a patched sail that had most certainly seen much better days. Una stumbled in beside her, sobbing with terror as the sounds of battle raged above them like the wrath of angry gods. Through the smoke and chaos, she could see the third ship was much closer now – close enough to make out the commanding figure she’d spotted earlier directing his men with deadly precision.
Sweet mercy…but he’s magnificent – like somethin’ carved from Highland granite and brought tae life by the old gods themselves…
“Lower away!” Ewan called to Duncan, both men working frantically to release the pulley system that would drop them to safety. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, mingling with soot and blood despite the cold sea air as their hands moved with desperate efficiency.
But safety was an illusion in Highland waters, especially when blood feuds ran deeper than the sea itself.
“Behind ye!” a new voice roared – deep, commanding, and filled with the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed on battlefields and council chambers alike.
Mirren spun toward the sound and felt her breath catch like a fishbone in her throat. Above them on the deck, a towering warrior materialized; he sliced through enemy soldiers with the fluid grace of the grim reaper. Even in the midst of the mayhem, his swordplay was awe-inspiring; his strikes were deliberate and his movements were lethally efficient, like witnessing a master craftsman at work. His dark hair whipped about his broad shoulders as he battled.
By me troth… ‘tis him again!
She wondered who he was, mesmerized despite the battle raging like hellfire around her. Mirren stood transfixed, unable to look away from the magnificent stranger.
He fights like the devil himself!
The mysterious warrior stood tall, his muscled frame outlined against the smoky sky as he moved with predatory grace. His blue eyes – even from that distance she could see they blazed like winter fire – swept the battlefield with tactical precision. When he turned to bark orders at his men, she caught sight of his profile: strong jaw, aristocratic nose, the bearing of someone born to command.
Och… he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on. What’s wrong with me, thinkin’ of such things in the middle of a battle?
The warrior’s blade opened one enemy throat after the other, then spun to parry another attack with moves so precise they almost seemed choreographed by the gods of war themselves. He fought like a man born for battle. His blue eyes blazed with cold fury as he cut down another attacker, and Mirren found herself unable to look away, despite the life-threatening danger drawing ever closer. She could feel the dinghy tilting beneath her feet, could hear the ominous crack of wood straining against the ship’s hull, yet her gaze remained fixed on him like a compass – as though he were the only true thing in a world gone entirely mad.
“The rope!” Una screamed, pointing upward with a trembling finger.
Mirren’s gaze snapped to where another enemy soldier – a wiry man with a notched dirk – was sawing frantically at the thick hemp that held their dinghy suspended. He cackled as the blade bit deep into the fibers, sending strands flying with each stroke.
“Nay!” Ewan lunged toward the saboteur, but he was too late.
The rope snapped with a sound like a crossbow string and the dinghy plummeted toward the icy, churning waters like a stone dropped from heaven. Mirren felt her stomach lurch as they fell, the world spinning in a nauseating blur of sky and sea and fire. Una’s shrieks pierced the air, high and desperate, just before they hit the waves with devastating force.
Mirren gasped as icy seawater crashed over the sides, soaking into their skin as the dinghy’s hull cracked against the ship’s barnacle-encrusted side. Wood splintered with sounds like breaking bones, and then, suddenly the boat was taking on water faster than a sieve.
We’re sinkin’!
Panic clawed at her chest as more icy water swirled around her legs.
But worse was yet to come. As the dinghy twisted sharply to starboard, a section of the broken hull – a jagged piece of oak the size of a man’s head – broke free and tumbled toward her with murderous intent.
Mirren tried to dodge it, but the rocking of the waves threw her off-balance. The splintered wood caught her across the temple with a blow that sent stars exploding behind her eyes. Sharp pain lanced through her skull, and she felt herself falling backward into the freezing embrace of the unforgiving Highland sea.
I’m drowning, she thought dimly as salty water filled her mouth and nose.
Darkness closed over her, and she felt her strength bleeding away with every heartbeat. The sounds of battle grew distant and muffled, as if heard through thick wool. Her limbs grew heavier than standing stones and she began to sink beneath the waves.
Then, strong hands seized her, hauling her upward with desperate strength.
***
Niel Campbell had seen enough battles to know when one was already lost.
The MacDonald galley blazed like a funeral pyre against the gray sky, black smoke billowing from her rigging as enemy warriors swarmed across her deck like carrion crows. From the prow of his own ship, he watched the chaos unfold with a calculating eye – noting the enemy’s numbers, their positions, the way they moved with the coordinated precision of men who’d thoroughly planned the attack.
“Mercenaries, most likely,” he growled to Kerr, who stood beside him with his own sword already drawn. “Has tae be. Look at their formation – they’re lookin’ fer somethin’ specific.”
“Nay colors.” Kerr replied grimly. “D’ye think they mean tae take the lass alive?”
Niel’s jaw tightened as he spotted a flash of auburn hair near the stern where a small group was fighting desperately around what looked like a dinghy. Even from this distance, he knew who she was – Lady Mirren MacDonald, his bride-to-be, been fighting like a wildcat while her guards tried to get her to safety.
“Over the rail, lads!” he commanded, his deep voice cutting through the din of battle. “And try nae tae kill any MacDonalds while ye’re at it aye!”
He swung over the side of the ship in one fluid motion, dropping to the MacDonald deck just as the dinghy’s rope snapped. Time seemed to slow as he watched the small boat plummet toward the churning waters below, carrying with it the woman whose fate was now bound to his own.
“Nae!” the word tore from his throat as he saw her strike the water, saw the splintered wood catch her across the temple, saw her auburn hair spread like blood in the waves as she sunk.
Without thought, without hesitation, Niel Campell dove after her.
The icy Highland water hit him like the fist of an angry god, stealing his breath and turning his world into a spinning nightmare of salt and darkness. But Niel fought against the cold, against the weight of his sword and clothing, swimming through the murky depths until his searching found soft fabric, and warm flesh.
He hauled her upward with desperate strength, breaking the surface just as her lips were turning blue.
Bloody hell, how can an unconscious lass be so beautiful?
Niel Campbell pulled the limp form of his bride-to-be against his chest, his heart hammering like a war drum as he fought to keep them both above the churning waves. Her auburn hair floated darkly around them like seaweed, catching the light even in the gray morning, and a thin trail of blood trickled from the gash on her temple where the broken dinghy had struck her.
If she dies before we’re even properly wed, this whole damned alliance disintegrates with her!
But even as the political implications raced through his mind, something deeper drove his desperate efforts to save her. She’d fought like a wildcat on that burning deck, had faced death with the kind of courage that would make any clan proud. This was no damsel to be protected – this woman was a warrior in her own right.
“Me laird!” Kerr’s voice carried across the water as the Campbell galley drew alongside the wreckage, its crew working frantically to maneuver closer. “Is she–?”
“Aye,” Niel called back, though he wasn’t entirely certain. Her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird beneath his fingertips, and her skin felt cold as winter stone. “Lower a rope! Now!”
The next few minutes passed in a blur of frantic activity that felt like hours. Willing hands hauled them both aboard the Campbell ship, where Niel laid the unconscious body of his intended bride on a pile of soft furs that had been hastily arranged near the mizzenmast. Her maid – a brown-haired slip of a thing who’d somehow survived the dinghy’s destruction – knelt beside her mistress with tears streaming down her face.
“Will she live?” the maid whispered, her voice breaking with grief and terror. “Please… tell me she’ll live.”
“Aye,” Niel said with more confidence than he felt. “She’s got MacDonald blood in her veins… too dammed stubborn tae die easily.”
He turned his attention to the MacDonald survivors who’d been pulled from the water, his blue eyes blazing with barely controlled fury. Three men stood dripping on his deck – two soldiers who’d been trying to lower the dinghy, and an older warrior who seemed to be their leader.
“What in the hell happened over there?” Niel demanded, his voice carrying the crack of command. “How did ye let armed enemies get close enough tae attack a defenseless bride?”
The older MacDonald – a grizzled man with steel-gray hair – bristled at the implied criticism. “We were outnumbered three tae one, Campbell! And those werenae ordinary pirates. They fought like men with a purpose, like bloody mercenaries!”
“A purpose that nearly got me bride killed!” Niel’s hand moved to his sword hilt, the gesture unconscious but unmistakable. “Ye were supposed tae deliver her safely!”
“We did our duty!” one of the younger soldiers snapped, his own temper flaring. “Ye’ve nay right tae–”
“I have every damned right!” Niel’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “When yer incompetence nearly–”
Niel was still arguing with the MacDonald soldiers when he noticed the slight movement among the furs. Her eyelids fluttered first – just a barely perceptible tremor that made him pause mid-sentence. Then, her fingers twitched, and he saw her brow furrow as consciousness began to return.
“… supposed tae protect her, nae deliver her intae enemy hands like ye were bringin’ them their Yuletide goose!” he continued, but his attention was split now, watching as Lady Mirren MacDonald slowly fought her way to awareness.
Her breathing changed, becoming less shallow, more deliberate. Then her head moved slightly, and he could see her struggling against the fog of unconsciousness. But as the seconds passed, he watched understanding dawning in her eyes – first confusion, then growing awareness of the voices around her, and finally… fury.
She struggled to sit up among the furs, her movements unsteady but determined, and when she spoke, her voice carried all the fire he expected from a MacDonald.
“Who… who exactly dae ye think ye are?”
The soft but defiant voice silenced every man on deck. Even battered and half-drowned, there was something magnificent about her – the proud tilt of her chin, the way she faced him without flinching despite her obvious injuries. Her auburn hair clung to her face and shoulders like dark silk, and even soaked with seawater, it caught the gray morning light with threads of fire. She was smaller than he’d expected, there was nothing fragile about the way she held herself.
She willnae bend fer any man, but especially nae a Campbell.
“Who am I?” he repeated, moving to kneel beside her. “I’m the man who just pulled ye from the sea, lass.”
As he drew closer, Niel noticed how her breath seemed to catch, how her eyes widened slightly as she took in his appearance. Even injured and defiant, there was something in her gaze that made his pulse quicken – a flicker of awareness that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the dangerous pull between enemies who found themselves inexplicably drawn to one another.
What in the devil’s name is wrong with me? She’s a MacDonald – I should despise her on sight.
“That daesnae give ye the right tae shout at me faither’s men like they’re disobedient hounds!” She tried to stand, swayed dangerously, then accepted her maid’s steadying hand with obvious reluctance. “They fought bravely, and they protected me as best they could!”
Niel couldn’t help but notice how she trembled slightly when he steadied her with gentle hands, how her skin warmed beneath his touch despite her obvious efforts to pull away. There was something almost vulnerable in the way she allowed him to help her, as if part of her wanted to lean into his strength even as her pride demanded she stand alone.
“Their best nearly got ye killed,” Niel pointed out, his voice gentler now but no less firm. “If I hadnae arrived when I did–”
Mirren’s eyes flashed like green fire. “I’m nae some helpless flower that needs a man’s protection tae survive!”
Niel felt his teeth grinding against one another as his jaw tightened.
Fierce as a Highland storm and twice as beautiful. Nay wonder her faither was reluctant tae give her up.
“Ye ken,” he said, his voice hardening with barely controlled irritation that made her eyes narrow, “most women would thank a man fer savin’ their life. Perhaps offer a bit of gratitude rather than a tongue-lashin’.”
“Most women,” Mirren shot back, her green eyes flashing like emerald fire, “havnae been raised by a MacDonald laird who taught them that acceptin’ help from a Campbell is like acceptin’ charity from the devil himself.”
“Ah,” Niel nodded. “So ye’re sayin’ I’m the devil now? Here I thought I was merely a humble rescuer who happened tae be in the right place at the right time.”
“Humble?” Mirren let out a laugh that was equal parts incredulous and genuinely amused despite herself. “Ye, humble? I doubt ye’ve had a humble moment in yer entire life.”
“Well,” he said, his voice taking on a dry note. “I didnae mention how devastatingly handsome I am, did I? Surely that shows remarkable restraint on me part.”
Niel watched as her eyes narrowed with what he suspected was grudging amusement. “Modest as well as handsome, I see. What a rare combination.”
“Nay, lass,” he said quietly, studying her face with new appreciation. “Ye’re definitely nae helpless. But ye are me responsibility now.”
“Yer responsibility?” She straightened despite the obvious pain it caused her. “And who, exactly, appointed ye me guardian? Because I dinnae recall asking fer–”
“I’m Niel Campbell,” he said simply, watching as understanding dawned in her stunning emerald eyes. “Laird of Clan Campbell.”
The silence that followed was so complete that the only sounds were the creak of rigging and the splash of waves against the hull. Mirren stared at him as if seeing him for the first time, her face cycling through a dozen different emotions – surprise, anger, fear, and something else he couldn’t quite identify.
“Laird Campbell,” she repeated slowly, as if tasting the word and finding it bitter on her tongue. Her green eyes swept over him again, this time with new understanding. “Of course ye are. I should have kent from the arrogance alone.” For a moment, she simply stared at him. “So,” she said finally, her voice carefully controlled. “Ye’re the bastard I’m supposed tae marry.”
“Aye. And ye’re the MacDonald lass who’s supposed bring peace between our clans.” He said, his expression hard. “Though from what I’ve seen, peace seems unlikely.”
His gaze flitted around them. “Get them off me ship,” Niel commanded his men, gesturing toward the survivors. “All of them. They sail back tae their own lands immediately.”
“But me laird–” one of his men began.
“Now.” He said, his voice deadly quiet. “Nae MacDonald sets foot on Campbell soil today except the lass.”
Mirren’s eyes flashed with fury. “Ye cannae just–”
“Aye, I can. And I will.” He turned towards his crew. “Set course fer Campbell lands.”
The look she gave him could have melted granite, her hands clenching at her sides.
“So, this is how it begins then, Campbell? With ye showin’ yer true nature.”
“Aye,” he replied coldly. “Best ye learn it quickly, lass.”
As his ship turned toward home, Niel Campbell silently wondered whether he’d just rescued his bride, or invited a viper into his bed.
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