Chapter 1

North Berwick Priory, 1646

The bells tolled their usual mournful song, a sound that had once made Alexandra flinch. Now, it barely stirred her. What did make her stir, rather violently, was the sight of Lady Margaret MacLean snoring into her pillow, blissfully unaware that she was ten minutes late for prayers.

Alexandra threw back the threadbare curtain surrounding the cot and leaned in close. “Margaret, if ye dinnae get up this instant, I swear on all the saints, I’ll pour this basin over yer head.”

Margaret groaned, rolling onto her back. “Ye’re bluffin’.”

“Aye?” Alexandra lifted the washbasin from the stand with both hands and tilted it just enough to let a droplet fall. It splashed against Margaret’s forehead. The girl shrieked.

“Saints preserve me!”

Alexandra grinned, setting the basin down with exaggerated care. “Sweet morning tae ye, too, Lady Margaret.”

Margaret groaned again, this time with more theatrical flair, and sat up. “Ye ken, sometimes I think ye enjoy this too much.”

“Only sometimes?.”

They moved quickly now, slipping into their coarse wool habits and fastening the simple rope belts at their waists with practiced ease. Alexandra adjusted Margaret’s veil, her fingers deft and a little rough as she tucked the last strands of hair beneath the stiff linen coif. Margaret, still muttering under her breath, reached over to smooth Alexandra’s wimple into place.

It was an odd kind of intimacy they’d developed over the years. A sort of friendship, with one girl living as the other’s shadow. Alexandra had never once let Margaret take a punishment meant for her, and Margaret, in return, never questioned Alexandra’s orders. Not when it counted.

When they stepped into the main corridor, the mask slipped into place. Other girls greeted them… “Morning, Alexandra,” to Margaret, and “Lady Margaret,” to Alexandra. It had taken years for Alexandra to answer to the wrong name without flinching. Now, it was second nature, it fit like an old boot. Too worn to replace. Too snug to shake off.

Sometimes she wondered if she’d ever answer to her real name again, if she would ever truly remember who that girl had been.

***

The sun hadn’t yet chased the chill from the air, and the harsh cold of the priory clung to the stone like a stubborn curse. Alexandra pulled her shawl tighter as they made their way to the courtyard garden. Chores awaited, as always; back-breaking, finger-numbing, soul-wilting chores.

“Dae ye think they’ll ever stop punishin’ us fer a war we didnae start?” Margaret asked as they reached the weed-choked beds.

Alexandra crouched beside a patch of stubborn thistle. “If they dae, what would the Prioress dae with all that spare time? She might have tae find joy in her life. Imagine that horror.”

Margaret snorted. “Blasphemy.”

They worked side by side, knuckles grazing dirt, silence settling between them like old cloth. Other women joined them, some cloistered, others like them, temporary ghosts in the church’s care. The scent of wet soil and morning dew clung to the air. Birds chirped cautiously, as though they too feared the wrath of the Prioress.

Margaret had been assigned to laundry duty that morning, but as always, she’d wandered back over to gossip. Alexandra gave her a sideways glance as Margaret sank to her knees beside her in the garden.

They looked enough alike that most didn’t question it. Same chestnut-brown hair that frizzed in the damp, same pale skin that the sun hadn’t touched in years, same quick mouth and stubborn chin. But where Margaret’s eyes held softness, curiosity, mischief, Alexandra’s had learned how to guard themselves. How to flinch without moving.

It had worked too well. They’d played the parts for so long that no one questioned who was who anymore.

Not even Margaret.

But Alexandra would guard that secret with every fiber of her soul, not out of fear, but because she owed Margaret more than she could ever repay. Margaret’s family had placed her there to be hidden, but in doing so, they’d saved Alexandra too. Without that twist of fate, Alexandra would’ve died cold and forgotten in some alley. Instead, she’d been given a name. A bed. A second chance.

And in return, she’d made herself into Margaret’s shadow. Her shield.

“Did ye hear about Sister Brigid and the cook?” Margaret snapped Alexandra out of her reverie, “I swear on the Virgin’s toes, I saw her sneak two tarts right into her habit yesterday.”

Alexandra snorted under her breath. “If ye’re caught idle again, they’ll hang ye up by the heels and make ye sweep the bell tower. And ye ken ye shouldnae swear.”

“Oh hush, ye always fret like an old maid. Besides, I like yer company better.”

Alexandra arched a brow, her voice a low mutter. “Flattery willnae save ye when the Prioress––”

“Alexandra!”

The voice cracked through the garden like a whip.

Margaret scrambled to her feet. Alexandra rose with her, shielding her instinctively.

“Back tae yer post,” the Prioress snapped. “This is the third time ye’ve been caught slackin’.”

Margaret ducked her head and fled.

The Prioress turned her flint-hard gaze on Alexandra but said nothing. She didn’t need to. Alexandra lowered her eyes and resumed her weeding.

She hated the Priory most in those moments. The endless watching. The judgment. The fear carved into every corner of the stones. She remembered too well the last time Margaret had been found gossiping instead of working. Alexandra had taken the blame, claimed she’d asked for help. She’d scrubbed the chapel floors for a week, knees blistered, palms raw.

Even now, she didn’t regret it. It was what she was brought there to do: protect Margaret. And she’d do it again.

As she toiled, the sharp clap of footsteps echoed behind her. Alexandra didn’t look up, she didn’t need to.

Margaret.

She could never stay away when there was a tasty morsel of gossip to be shared. She crouched down beside her, a tinkle already making its way to the corner of her eyes.

“Lady Margaret,” The Prioress. barked, voice like a whip crack, she had come back. “That root bed should’ve been cleared by now. Or are ye waitin’ fer divine intervention tae weed it fer ye?”

She turned to Margaret “What are ye still daeing here?”

Margaret startled, fumbling her grip on a spade she had quickly grabbed.

Alexandra straightened, dirt-streaked and tired. “It was me fault, Prioress. I asked fer her help tae work the roots properly. I’m nae used tae thick thistle.”

The Prioress narrowed her eyes. “Ye speakin’ fer her now, Lady Margaret?”

“Just takin’ responsibility fer me own actions, is all.”

“Hmph.” The woman turned her stare on Margaret, who wisely kept her eyes low. “I’ve half a mind tae send ye both scrubbing the privy tiles.”

Alexandra stepped forward, chin high. “Aye, then best send me alone. She’s—”

She stopped herself. Nearly too late.

“She’s sensitive tae the smell, she will faint again, is all.”

The Prioress stared long and hard before muttering a prayer under her breath and walking off.

Margaret exhaled shakily. “Ye didnae have tae dae that.”

“Didn’t I? One more minute of her glare and ye’d have burst into tears and confessed yer lineage.”

Margaret grimaced. “I was fine.”

Alexandra smiled, returning to her weeding. “Of course ye were. Brave as a lion.”

But her hands trembled as they returned to the soil. The Prioress’s words, the memory of beatings long past, settled like frost in her bones. She’d learned young what happened to girls who couldn’t hold their tongues, and younger still what happened when ye tried to defend someone who didn’t understand the cost. A crow called from the chapel roof, ominous and loud.

Alexandra’s knees throbbed with every shift of weight, her palms blistered and raw beneath layers of grime, and her back pulsed with a dull, angry fire. But still, she worked. Because that was the only thing she’d ever known how to do.

Life had never offered her softness. No silks, no soothing words, no shelter from the storm. It had offered her bruised knuckles, an unyielding will, and the stubborn marrow-deep grit to survive. She had learned young that comfort was not a gift, it was a gamble. One she’d lost too many times to count.

So now, even the smallest mercies felt like riches. A clean room. Warm porridge in the morning for her aching belly. Walls of stone thick enough to mute the biting wind that had chased her while she was on the streets. A bed with a blanket…

That one I say me hail Mary fer every day.

Here in the priory, these things were more than blessings. They were currency.

She had only just returned to her duties, delicately weeding the herb garden, when she heard it.

The thunder of hooves.

Not one. Not two. Too many. They came fast and hard, descending the hill like a wave of fury.

Alexandra’s spine stiffened. Her fingers curled tighter around the spade as her head jerked up, eyes straining toward the priory gates.

Men.

The kind of men whose arrival never brought good.

A chorus of drunken shouts echoed after the hooves, rough, slurred, aggressive. There was steel in those voices. And spit. And something worse… intent.

Her breath hitched.

Nay. Saints, nay. Nae again. Nae like last time. Please, nae like last time.

That time had been bad enough, three men from the nearby town, slurring and shoving, trying to rip open barrels and find something worth taking. But they’d been stupid. Loud and easily frightened off by the sudden arrival of the village watch.

But this, this was different. Alexandra could feel it in her bones. There were more of them now.. And no one was coming.

The priory had no guards, no gates that could truly hold. Just prayer, stone walls, and women. That was all.

Then came the sound.

The creak of iron hinges being forced. And then, a slam.

A voice, deep and coarse, cut through the air like a blade. “Where’s the silver, ye holy crows?” “Where’s the gold ye hoard fer yer saints?”

Crash. A barrel toppled.

Crash. A shelf splintered. Glass shattered. A loud scream pierced the air.

Sister Mary?

Alexandra dropped the spade. It hit the dirt with a dull thud. Her hands trembled, but her legs wouldn’t move. She stared, wide-eyed, toward the cloister arch, her body locked between instinct and horror.

Two of them appeared. One was rummaging through sacks of grain, hurling them aside like garbage. The other was laughing, a wet, sloshing sound, as he kicked open a storeroom door. They smelled of ale, sweat, and something sharper… desperation.

One had a rusted sword. The other, a length of chain, wrapped tight in his fist.

“There’s naught here,” one of them spat. “Same as last time.”

The second man’s smile curved like a knife. “Then we take something else.”

And then he looked up. His gaze swept the courtyard like a predator searching for movement.

“The girls.”

Alexandra felt the words before she processed them, felt them lodge in her spine like an arrow. Her blood went cold.

Her legs moved to the sound before a single thought pierced the loud ringing in her ear. She ran.

Her sandals slapped against the stone as she sprinted for the chapel corridor, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

She found Margaret by the entry arch, frozen, eyes wide and unblinking. She must have ran for safety in the midst of the chaos. Two younger girls clung to her robes like frightened lambs.

“Come on! We have to move!” Alexandra hissed, grabbing her by the wrist.

Margaret blinked as if waking from a trance. “Wh-what’s happening?”

“They’re here fer us. Nay time. Run!”

The sounds behind them grew louder… shouts, crashes, footsteps gaining speed.

Alexandra yanked Margaret forward, dragging the three girls into motion. They bolted across the courtyard, dodging buckets, leaping over basins, the wind slapping against their faces, slicing into their skin.

Her lungs burned. Her legs screamed. But she couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop.

Then, through the haze of panic, an idea struck her. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t safe. But it was all they had.

Margaret’s face was white from the wind. “What dae we dae?”

“Ye run back the other way. Now. Find Sister Agnes and get inside,” she ordered breathlessly. “I’ll draw them away. Run.”

“Nae without ye.”

Alexandra’s glare was sharp. “If ye stay, they’ll take both of us. Now move.”

The two other girls veered with her. Alexandra ran the other way. Into the woods.

Her body screamed in protest. Her mind spun with panic. But she had to lead them away. She was used to running anyway. Used to being hunted.

But this time, she didn’t have the cover of a city or the anonymity of streets. It was just trees, air, and her.

A root caught her boot and she tumbled, knees slamming hard into the earth. Pain burst through her legs. Blood smeared her shins. She gritted her teeth and pushed up. Cannae stop now.

She had run farther in worse shoes, from worse men. She’d clawed her way through alley fights, gutters and alleys that stank of piss and blood, nuns with cruel hands. She’d be damned if this was where it ended.

Keep going. Just keep going.

Let them chase her. Let them all chase her. As long as Margaret got away.

The world spun, the forest a blur of green and dark.

Please, let them chase me.

A hand caught her hair, yanked hard.

She screamed, but the sound was quickly muffled as a filthy palm clamped over her mouth. The stink of rot and sour ale flooded her senses.

She bucked and thrashed, scratching wildly, her fingers gouging at his skin, her knee trying to find purchase. He cursed and wrestled with her. She bit down on his hand. He yelped, loosening his grip, just enough.

Now!

She turned sharply and slammed her foot into his shin, then drove her elbow into his gut with every ounce of strength she had left.

He staggered, gasping.

Alexandra broke free. Her legs trembled, her lungs burned. She was dizzy with fear, with rage, with pain.

But she ran.

Behind her, the man roared. She heard him crashing after her again.

Nay. Nay, nay, nay… just let me make it. Let me reach the trees.

Something heavy struck her from behind. She collapsed onto the forest floor, air punched from her lungs.

The man grabbed her again, snarling this time. “Ye’ll fetch a fine price, girl.”

He began to drag her backward through the dirt, his grip rough, tearing at her gown.

Terror burst like thunder in her chest. That was it. Alexandra clawed at the earth, fingernails raking through mud and stones. She kicked, twisted, her limbs wild with desperation. Screamed until her throat tore raw, until the sound broke and failed her entirely.

And then…

Silence.

A shadow fell across her, long and unmoving. Something, or someone, loomed above.

The grip vanished.

Her body sagged in sudden release. She gasped and rolled, coughing, blinking up at the shape now standing between her and her attacker.

Still, she fought, refusing to be still, refusing to be helpless. She pushed up on shaky arms, crawled, staggered to her feet… and slammed into something solid.

A man, a mountain of one.

He didn’t stumble. Didn’t sway. Just stood there like the world had built itself around him and refused to go on without his permission.

His chest was broad beneath his worn, dark cloak, stone beneath fabric, and a sword hung long across his back, catching the dim light with a hungry gleam. But it wasn’t the weapon that struck her, it was the way he moved: not like a soldier or even a warrior… but something more dangerous.

He moved like death in human skin. Calm. Purposeful. Inevitable.

Alexandra’s breath caught, a fluttering thing in her chest.

Who in the devil’s name…?

He turned from her without a word and faced the man who had tried to drag her off.

“That one’s mine,” he said, voice low and measured.

The words barely echoed, but they reverberated in her bones. There was a strange beauty to his voice. A Highland burr, deep and grainy like it had been carved from the land itself. It sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with fear.

Her attacker snarled, drawing a blade from his belt. A short, jagged thing.

But the tall man didn’t flinch… he moved.

Saints preserve us.

One second he was still, and the next he was all brutal, fluid motion. The chain that had swung toward him was caught mid-air, twisted, yanked, and the man who held it stumbled forward, off-balance, right into a fist that cracked across his jaw with a sickening crunch.

The second blow came from nowhere, a boot to the gut that folded the thug in half. And then, steel.

The sword hissed free like it knew what it wanted.

A blur. A twist. A scream cut short by the wet sound of flesh meeting blade. Then… a thud. A body hitting earth, heavy and final. And stillness.

The other attackers had vanished, scattered like ash in the wind. Behind her, she thought she saw more men, armed, armored, sweeping the courtyard. But her eyes wouldn’t leave the one in front of her.

The man turned slowly and looked at her.

Her breath hitched again, but for another reason entirely.

Sweet Mary, he was…

Handsome wasn’t the word. There was nothing soft or pretty about him. But he was striking in a way that made her stomach twist, dark hair swept back from a face carved in harsh, angular lines, a scar along his jaw that only made him more dangerous. A man built for war. For blood and fire. And God help her, she felt her knees weaken, not from fear this time, but something far more foolish.

No, no, not now. Not this. She clenched her jaw, forced her thoughts to obey. But her heart, her traitorous heart, still beat too fast.

He stepped closer. The scent of leather, steel, and something wild and clean wrapped around her. He tilted his head.

“Lady Margaret MacLean?”

Alexandra blinked.

Of all the rotten luck in the world.

Chapter 2

Her breath stalled in her throat.

Margaret? He thinks I’m…

The thought tangled in her mind, spinning like leaves caught in a storm.

Her lips parted, instinct kicking in to correct him, but the words barely escaped before he was already moving. He stepped closer, purposeful but not rushed, and reached out to cup her elbow like he thought she might run.

And she might’ve. If her knees hadn’t chosen that moment to betray her. The strength left her all at once, legs crumpling beneath her. She pitched forward…

He caught her without strain. Like catching her weight was no more trouble than picking up a cloak.

“Easy, lass,” he murmured, his voice a gravel-soft blend of command and quiet reassurance.

That voice. It was wrong how steady it made her feel. Warm. Calloused fingers pressed firm against her arm, grounding her, anchoring her. She should’ve pulled away. She didn’t.

He dipped his head slightly, peering into her face. “Ye’re safe now. I promised yer faither I’d bring ye home.”

Home. The word coiled around her like a noose. She blinked up at him, the world lurching sideways. Her father? Home? Her mouth had gone dry. Her thoughts raced.

He means Margaret’s father. Margaret’s home.

His eyes were sharp, watching her. Not cruel, not leering… but intent. Searching. As if he expected her to shatter at any moment.

“Who…?” she whispered, her voice barely working. “Who are ye?”

The man hesitated for only a breath, then inclined his head in something like a formal bow, tight, reserved. “Laird Callum Mackenzie,” he said, the name rolling off his tongue like it carried weight, like it meant something.

It did. She could feel it in the way he said it, grounded, noble, and not to be questioned.

“Yer faither sent word weeks ago,” he continued, watching her closely. “Told me tae find ye. Bring ye back.”

Bring Margaret back. That’s why he’s here.

Dinnae deny it. Nae yet. You dinnae ken who he is. Or what he wants with her.

“Where… back where exactly?” she managed, forcing the words through her muddled thoughts. “Where are ye taking me?”

His brow dipped, just slightly. “The Highlands. North of Glen Torran. The keep’s nae far from the MacLean lands.”

She swallowed hard. That meant nothing to her, but maybe it would to Margaret.

His grip was still on her elbow, steadying her. His scent curled around her, and to her horror, it made her dizzy.

He’s strong. Dangerous. And he thinks I’m someone else. Someone important.

And right now, the only way to protect that someone was to stay in character so she didn’t correct him. Didn’t tell him her real name. Didn’t even blink.

Instead, she nodded faintly, lips parted, heart thundering.

“Right,” she murmured. “Of course.”

But her mind raced with a single question:

How long can I keep this up before he finds out who I really am?

Pain throbbed in Alexandra’s knees as she stood, wavering, skirts torn and caked with blood and earth. Her lungs burned. Her limbs shook. But all she could see was him, the stranger, broad-shouldered and iron-still, the moonlight catching on the edge of his sword like a whisper of danger.

He hadn’t moved since he’d helped her to her feet. He stood with the same quiet authority, watching her like a man who didn’t blink often. Like a man used to being obeyed.

She had to tread carefully.

She lifted her chin, forcing steel into her spine. “How did ye ken I am Margaret?” she asked, her voice rough but steady.

The man didn’t answer at once. He just looked at her.

His eyes were a stormy blue, unreadable but sharp, and they watched her like she was a puzzle he was already halfway to solving. The weight of it made her skin prickle. Alexandra’s mouth went dry.

Finally, he spoke, voice low. “I heard the others shoutin’ after ye. Margaret, they said. Loud enough tae stir the dead.”

He took a step closer, as if to examine her more fully. “And ye match the description. Chestnut hair. Blue eyes. The jaw of a girl who doesn’t yield easy.”

She kept her breath even. Swallowed the denial rising in her throat. Her name sat on the edge of her tongue, but she didn’t speak it.

Nae yet. Nae until I ken what he wants with Margaret. Margaret is out there somewhere. I have tae find her. I have tae keep her safe.

She forced a nod. She had to know more, to know if he was truly sent by the MacLeans or if this was all a lie.

“So we’re going north,” she said confidently, like she didn’t already feel the ground tilting beneath her. “Tae what end?”

His expression didn’t shift. “Tae keep ye safe.”

“And once I’m there?” she asked. “What then?”

It took him a moment to answer. “There’ll be a wedding.”

The words hit like cold water.

“A wedding,” she repeated, her voice nearly catching.

“Aye. An alliance. MacLean and Mackenzie.”

She paused, then frowned. “Why nae send MacLean men? Surely that would’ve been the proper way of it.”

Something flickered in his eyes, wry amusement, maybe.

“Aye,” he said. “Traditionally, ‘Tis the way of it. But this alliance isnae traditional.” He paused. “The MacLeans thought it wiser nae tae send their own, too many enemies scattered in the glens, too many eyes watchin’ the roads. Me family’s ties run deep enough, and we’ve fewer enemies in this stretch of the Highlands. They trusted me tae see ye delivered.”

Alexandra said nothing, the weight of his words pressing down on her like cold water.

An alliance through marriage. Margaret would be pleased.

“So I’m tae be married,” she said, quieter now.

He nodded. “That’s the arrangement.”

A wedding. A union between clans. A future that belonged to the girl she was pretending to be, not to her. Alexandra swallowed hard, trying to keep the panic from rising. What if Margaret was still running? Still hiding? What if she was lost or hurt, or worse?

I’ll find her. I have tae.

Her fingers curled tightly into her skirt. “And this alliance,” she said carefully, “I suppose I’ve nay say in it?”

His gaze didn’t shift. “There’s nay time. The Lowlands aren’t safe. The longer we linger, the more men will come.”

Not an answer. Not really.

She was trembling now, not from pain, not from exhaustion, but from everything else. Still, she kept her back straight. A stranger’s keep in the far Highlands. And she was walking into it under another woman’s name.

God help me. What is tae happen tae me?

She said nothing more, watching him as the wind hissed through the trees. Her thoughts churned.

Where was Margaret now? Had she truly escaped? Was she still running? Alexandra’s chest tightened.

Please, let her be safe. Let her get back tae the nunnery. I’ll find her. I’ll make this right. I’ll trade places again. I just need time.

But she couldn’t find her if she was dead. And Callum Mackenzie, for all his silence and stone-faced strength, hadn’t hurt her.

He turned slightly and nodded toward the tree line. “Can ye ride?”

Ride? I can barely walk.

She nodded anyway. Laird Mackenzie gave a sharp whistle, and from the shadows emerged a tall black stallion, led by one of his men. Three others followed, cloaked and armed.

He mounted first, then extended a hand. “Ye’ll fall if ye try yerself.”

Alexandra’s heart hammered. But she slipped her hand into his anyway. His grip was strong. He lifted her easily, swinging her up before him on the saddle. The warmth of his chest pressed against her back. His arms braced on either side. His breath close to her ear.

“Ride,” he commanded. The forest blurred around them as hooves struck earth.

Alexandra said nothing. She held her posture tight, eyes fixed ahead, the weight of a lie sitting like a stone in her chest.

She was not Margaret MacLean. But for now, she had to be.

And pray she found the real one before it was too late.

They rode in silence at first. Alexandra sat stiffly, fists clenched in her lap, spine straight as a rod. The night air bit at her cheeks, but the heat of Laird Mackenzie’s body behind her was worse, unsettling in its steadiness. His breath stirred the curls near her temple, and every so often, she felt his gaze shift, as though he were studying her profile in the dark.

She couldn’t keep quiet much longer. Not if there was a chance to fix this. Not if there was any hope of saving Margaret.

He hasn’t hurt you. He could’ve but he didn’t. He protected you. He might protect her too.

She licked her dry lips, bracing herself. “Laird Mackenzie, I must tell ye something,” she said, her voice low. “I’m nae who ye think I am.”

He didn’t react at first. Just kept his eyes forward, posture loose but alert.

“I’m nae Margaret MacLean,” she continued, the words tumbling out now, tight and panicked. “She was one of the other girls. We escaped together… I stayed behind tae draw them off. That’s why I was still there. That’s why they were shouting her name.”

Her heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the rhythm of the horse beneath them. “I never meant tae deceive ye. I only, I thought ye might mean her harm. I thought… I didnae ken who ye were.”

Silence stretched between them, long and suffocating. She risked turning her head slightly, to glance at him over her shoulder.

Laird Mackenzie’s expression was unreadable. Not angry, but watchful.

“I see,” he said at last.

She blinked. “Ye believe me, then?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, with a faint furrow of his brow, he said, “Ye waited some time tae tell me that.”

Her breath caught. “I didnae ken if I could trust ye!”

“Aye,” he said. “And now I dinnae ken if I can trust you.”

That stung.

“I’m telling the truth,” she said quietly. “I swear it.”

He didn’t soften. “Maybe ye are.”

Her mouth opened in protest, but no words came.

Finally, he added, “If ye insist on it, I suppose the sisters at the priory will ken who’s who.”

Alexandra swallowed hard, knowing full well that none of the sisters knew the truth. There was only one person who knew the truth, Margaret’s uncle, and he was not there.

“Aye,” she whispered.

***

By the time they reached the priory gates, the chaos had begun to settle. Laird Mackenzie’s men had stayed behind after the attack, scattering the remaining bandits and helping to re-secure the grounds. Smoke still hung faintly in the air, mingling with the scent of trampled herbs and cold stone.

Laird Mackenzie rode through the priory gates like he belonged to them. His men followed behind, silent shadows, nodding curtly at the women they passed. Alexandra sat stiffly in front of him, her spine straight, her hands cold in her lap.

He dismounted first and offered his hand again. She hesitated for a moment before taking it. Her feet barely touched the ground before the Prioress swept forward, her habit rustling like dried leaves. Her face was pale, wind-bitten, but her eyes were sharp and steady.

“Lady Margaret,” she breathed, reaching out like she meant to gather Alexandra into an embrace. “Thank the Lord ye’ve returned unharmed.”

Alexandra flinched. Her stomach twisted.

“Prioress…”

Laird Mackenzie stepped forward. “Prioress,” he said with a respectful nod, his voice firm but courteous. “Callum Mackenzie, son of Laird Malcolm Mackenzie. I was sent by Laird MacLean tae escort Lady Margaret north, as arranged.”

The Prioress blinked, then inclined her head with solemn recognition. “Laird Mackenzie. Aye… we received word some days ago that a representative may come, though we didnae expect ye so soon.”

“I arrived when I was needed,” he said simply. Then reached inside his cloak and withdrew a sealed letter. “Me orders. From her faither.”

The Prioress accepted the parchment, turning it in her hands, eyes catching on the MacLean seal. She nodded again, slower this time, before folding it and tucking it into her sleeve.

“Ye’ve done us a great service, Laird Mackenzie. Without yer men, this place may have burned. We’re grateful fer yer protection. And fer finding our girl.” Her gaze slid to Alexandra, warm but watchful.

Laird Mackenzie gave a modest dip of his chin. “I was glad tae offer help. Yer women held their ground better than most trained men I’ve kent.”

A faint flicker of pride softened the Prioress’s mouth. Alexandra stood frozen between them, words rising again in her throat. “Prioress, I’m afraid ye’ve made a mistake—”

But the woman was already turning away, her tone brisk and final. “Come. We must speak inside.”

Alexandra turned to Laird Mackenzie, her heart pounding but he, too, was already moving. Around them, nuns moved with hushed reverence, thanking Callum and his men with murmured blessings and shy nods. A few glanced at Alexandra, their expressions proud and relieved.

She tried one last time.

“I told ye. I’m not who…”

“I heard ye,” Laird Mackenzie said without looking at her. “I just dinnae believe ye.”

She turned sharply to face him. “Why?”

He studied her, unreadable. “Because ye protest too much. And yet, ye’ve nae run. And if ye’re nae Margaret, then where is she?”

In here somewhere, hopefully. I need tae find her.

She paused. Took a breath. She needed an opportunity to be alone. To search around the priory without the watchful eyes of Callum on her.

“If I must go with ye,” she said quietly, “may I at least pack me things?”

He regarded her for a long beat. Then nodded. “Be quick.”

She dipped her head, then slipped away down the cloister hall.

Not to pack, to search.

 

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Ian Wallace never wanted to be laird, but with a dying clan to save, he has no time for complications—especially not the fierce, beautiful prisoner hidden in his own new castle. She’s a MacAlpin, born of the blood he’s sworn to hate but the fire in her eyes stirs something deeper than duty. He should send her away. Instead, he’ll risk everything to keep her.

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Thora MacLeod always follows her visions, but kidnapping Laird Aedan Cameron and blackmailing him into a fake marriage at a dangerous Yule gathering? Not her best idea. As sparks fly in enemy territory, their feelings for one another start to complicate things. Thora knows that her visions might save their clans, but they won’t stop her heart from shattering once Aedan finds out she’s been lying to him all along…

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