Possessed by the Highland Sinner (Preview)
Chapter One
1647, Jura
“Ye’ll nae break me, ye bastards.”
Lady Margaret MacLean’s voice was hoarse but steady as she spat out those words.
Though her lips were cracked, and her breath tasted of salt and blood, she kept yanking hard on the iron chain that shackled her wrists to the beam overhead, ignoring the sting in her raw skin. The slaver who’d passed by moments earlier had given her a look of half amusement, half wariness.
Let him look. Let them all look.
The ship groaned as it scraped against rock, and the hull lurched as they anchored off the coast of Jura. Margaret had heard one of the men mention the name before, so she knew where they had landed. The scent of kelp and damp earth wafted in through the cracked wooden slats of the hull, solidifying the conviction.
Freedom was just beyond that door. It was so close she could taste it, but the chains refused to give.
The hold was dark and rank with the stink of sweat, sickness, and fear. Around her, girls whimpered softly, their bodies pressed together in a corner where the rats kept away for now. Some had long stopped crying. Others had become hollow-eyed things. They were nothing but ghosts wearing flesh. The sounds and sights scraped at Margaret’s soul.
Was this the fate she was destined for? The fire of rebellion seemed to burn brighter in her than it did in others. She refused to allow the pirates to break her spirit, because as long as she had that, she was alive.
“Margaret,” whispered Elsie, one of the girls from the priory, who had been Margaret’s close friend in these troubled times. Her voice trembled like a reed in wind. “Will they… will they kill us?”
“Nay.” Margaret turned to her, with her chin high despite the ache that throbbed in her temple. “We’re worth more alive. But we willnae let them sell us. We’ll find a way.”
“Still playing at noble lady, are ye?” croaked a voice from behind. It belonged to a girl with matted curls and a half-healed cut across her cheek. She was not one of the priory girls. “Ain’t nae lairds or castles here, princess.”
Margaret bit down the retort. There was no point in telling them the truth. In fact, the truth would make it all even more dangerous for everyone involved, for no one on that ship knew who she truly was. To them, she was just another stolen girl, whose mind kept drifting, unbidden, to the smoke curling above the stone spires of North Berwick Priory, six months past.
She could still remember the steel glinting in the mist, faces covered with scarves and swords soaked in malice. The girls scattered about, running for their lives. Margaret was still dreaming of the flames licking the windows of the priory where her family had raised their only daughter in hiding, fearing the wrath of the MacKenzies, but it seemed that there was more to fear than them alone. In her nightmares, she felt the coarseness of the ropes and the gag in her mouth, as they’d hauled her over a horse like a sack of barley.
A splash brought her back. They were unloading the gangplank. The slavers shouted to one another in a harsh mix of tongues. Somewhere in the distance, a blast cracked through the air, ripping it into two invisible halves.
Margaret curled her fingers into the chain. Her knuckles were bleeding where she’d scraped them against the bolt. She had tried to get away so many times that she had lost count, and the punishment was worse each time, aiming to break her spirit, not only her body.
“Come now, ye wee, pretty thing.” A leering, oily voice cut through the dark. It belonged to a slaver she knew well by now: Coyle. He walked with a limp and liked to toy with his blade. “Let’s see if ye’ve still got fire in ye when ye’re on the block.”
He stooped to unhook her chain from the wall. She lashed out with both feet, catching him in the knee. He swore and backhanded her hard enough to split her lip.
Still, she smiled. “Ye hit like a bairn.”
Coyle grabbed her by the hair and yanked her upright. “Ye’ll regret that mouth, lass.”
Margaret was about to snarl back but the clatter of boots on the ladder made every girl in the dark hold go still. The hatch groaned open fully. Two sailors descended first, rough-looking, broad-shouldered brutes with knives at their belts and piss-soaked boots. Then, Margaret’s eyes fell on the one they all seemed to step aside for. Her entire body trembled, her fingers ached to wrap themselves around his throat and make him expel the very last breath out of his body, for he deserved nothing better. There was to be no mercy for the likes of him.
“Clear out,” came a clipped, commanding voice.
Margaret recognized Coyle’s answering snarl before she saw his face.
“I was told tae guard ’em.”
“Now I’m tellin’ ye tae get above deck.”
Coyle didn’t say anything. He merely spat instead of a response. Then, there was another sound of heavy footfalls retreating up the ladder and Coyle disappeared from view. The new man, who took his place.
Margaret lifted her head just enough to see him now standing at the center of the hold. His coat marked him as something different from the others. It was dark, well-fitted, military in cut. His blond hair was tied back neatly, while his eyes moved across the cramped space like a butcher surveying meat.
He held a small ledger in one hand, and a long, slim knife rested on his belt. Surprisingly, it was not stained with blood like the others’ but it was still honed to a wicked gleam.
“Line ‘em up,” he said.
The sailors barked orders. Girls scrambled to their feet or were yanked up by the arms, whichever way was faster. Margaret moved slowly, not because she was afraid, but because she refused to let them see her fear.
The man approached the first girl and cupped her chin, lifting her face toward the light. He didn’t smile, nor did he speak. He simply looked at what was on offer, at what could be of any use to him. She trembled like a leaf, and when he released her, she sagged back against the beam.
The next girl was inspected more thoroughly. He brushed her hair aside to check her neck, then her arms. She was told to open her mouth, as his gloved hand hovered over her, precise and utterly indifferent. Strangely enough, he did not leer and that, somehow, made it worse.
When he reached Elsie, Margaret clenched her fists so tightly that her nails cut into her palms.
“She’s young,” one of the sailors muttered.
“Still healthy. She’ll fetch a fair price,” that man murmured, jotting something in the ledger.
He continued down the line.
Mary, who was another friend, was also checked, inspected, then marked. Lena was turned around to reveal the fading lash marks across her back. A girl named Isla tried to turn away and was slapped hard by a sailor. The man inspected them all with the easy manner of a man looking at a sword in a merchant’s stall, testing its balance before deciding if it would serve him.
Then he stopped in front of Margaret. He probably expected her to lower her head, like all the other girls did. But she lifted her chin, instead. She vowed to herself that she would not give him shame, or fear, or anything else he obviously wanted of her. Her mother had once told her that pride was not always loud, that it could live in silence, in the way a girl kept her shoulders back even when the world told her to fall to her knees.
So, Margaret kept standing, still and defiant. His gaze roamed from her face down to her frame, which was too thin now, with her ribs slightly visible beneath the coarse shift. She felt utterly bare beneath his assessing gaze, but she refused to look away, even for a moment.
Hunger gnawed at all of them, but Margaret had refused what little food had been offered. Her pride refused to allow her to eat slop meant for pigs. It also refused to let her captors claim even that small victory.
“She’s a pretty one,” he said, speaking as if she weren’t standing right there. “But she’s gone too thin. The buyers’ll see her and think she’s weak an’ sick.”
“She willnae eat,” said one of the sailors nearby.
The man’s eyes narrowed at her. “Is that true?”
Margaret didn’t answer. She knew that silence was the only weapon of power she had to yield in this cruel, unforgiving place and she refused to let it drop out of her clammy, trembling hands.
He took a step closer. “Ye think starving yerself’ll change what’s coming?”
She still gave no reply. Her jaw set even harder.
“Or maybe ye think it’ll kill ye first?” He leaned in slightly. “Dinnae flatter yerself, lass. If ye die down here, I’ll recover the coin elsewhere. Ye’re nae the only asset on this ship.”
Margaret trembled with fear, but her voice was strong. “Aye, well. At least I’d be an asset ye couldnae sell.”
One of the sailors snorted in amusement and another shifted uneasily.
The man’s mouth flattened, and it made the scar she saw on his face even more prominent. “Ye think this is some noble sacrifice? Ye think the world remembers the names of lasses who rot in chains?”
“I dinnae need the world tae remember,” she said coldly.
His expression changed then. There was no more smirking, no more curiosity. There was only a flash of something sharp and immediate, anger intertwined with impatience. He turned to the two men beside him.
“Take her.”
Margaret’s stomach twisted. “What?”
“Tie her in the aft corner… alone.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. “Let her rot in her pride a few days longer. If she starves, so be it.”
Two sailors moved instantly.
Margaret fought, kicking out as one grabbed her arm. The other yanked her chain taut, twisting her wrist painfully. She bucked, cursed, shouted, but there was nowhere to run and no ground to stand on. All this happened while the girls watched in terrified silence.
“Ye bastard!” she spat, her heels dragging through the filth-streaked floor of the hold. “Ye think I’ll beg ye? I’ll never give ye that!”
The man didn’t answer. He just turned his back as they hauled her across the dark space. They threw her down at the far corner of the hold, where the wood sweated cold brine and the rats lingered even in torchlight. The chain rattled loud as they shackled her ankles to an iron loop set into the floor, her arms still bound.
One of them gave the chain a sharp tug for good measure, grinning as she nearly toppled over. She bit back the sound of pain.
Once she was certain that the guards were gone, she continued tugging at the chains. Every movement sent bolts of pain up her calf, but she didn’t stopped trying. She’d twisted her foot until it was nearly numb. She pulled the chain taut, tested the bolts, scraped her fingers bloody searching the seam of the manacle for weakness, but ended up with nothing. And still, she didn’t stop.
Around her, the other girls huddled in silence, with their eyes wide and hollow in the dark. Some wept quietly, while others stared at nothing.
Then, they heard a low thud, which was seemingly insignificant, dull and distant. Then came another, followed by a tremor in the hull. Then shouting and men’s voices rising. The sound of running boots exploded somewhere up above. Someone started barking orders.
Margaret’s head snapped up. Thick and suffocating, the smoke started to curl beneath the hatch and spilt into the hold like a creeping ghost, in search of its next victim. A girl began to cough.
More noise followed, screaming. There were crashes, splintering wood, more screams. Someone bellowed something in a voice Margaret didn’t know.
Fire, she thought to herself, as her heart punched against her ribs. The ship must be burning.
A wave of heat curled down through the gaps in the planks above. The girls were coughing now, stumbling to their feet, desperately pulling at their chains. Some pounded the hull and others wailed for help.
“Nay one’s coming,” Margaret rasped. “Nay one’s coming fer us.”
The smoke was getting thicker, pouring in faster and faster. It stung her eyes and coated her tongue in ash. She didn’t know much, but she knew one thing: if they stayed there, they would all burn.
She glanced down at her tattered dress, noticing a small button. It was made of bone and was already dull from wear. With shaking fingers, she tore it free.
She had no idea what she was doing or what she was trying to achieve. The manacle had a crude keyhole. It was just a rusted oval rim near the hinge. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be locked, just hammered shut. But maybe, just maybe…
Without thinking, she jammed the button in and twisted.
At first, nothing happened. Then, she tried again. Her fingers trembled so hard she dropped it once, scrabbling for it in the dark. Her lungs were burning. Girls were screaming behind her, and a small child retched in the smoke.
She begged whoever was listening… God, the Saints, or the spirit of her clan.
Please, let it give.
She twisted again, harder.
Click.
The sound was so quiet she thought she imagined it. Then the manacle opened. Margaret nearly sobbed, but there was no time. Instead, she composed herself and sprung forward. Her legs were dead from being bound, but she caught herself.
“Mary!” she rasped, crawling back to the girls, coughing through the smoke, using the same button to unclasp her chains. “Elsie… where’s Elsie?”
“Here!” Mary coughed. “Here! She’s stuck, her hands!”
Margaret dropped to her knees and tugged on Elsie’s chains. She wedged her heel against the bolt and pulled. Finally, it budged. Margaret ran to the next girl and used the button again jamming it into the rusted lock.
Another click. Two were freed, then, three. But chaos still reigned.
“The ladder!” someone screamed.
By the time Margaret reached the ladder, her hair reeked of smoke and her chest heaved like a bellows. She glanced back only to see those six girls behind her. Four more were still trying to crawl, while some could barely stand.
She turned to Mary. “Get the little ones up top. If it’s worse above, stay near the hull and wait. Dinnae draw attention.”
“What about ye?”
“I’ll get as many as I can out. Now go!”
Mary hesitated but nodded. She and another older girl began pulling the children toward the ladder. Margaret, on the other hand, stumbled toward the last corner of the hold. There were two girls lying limp on the floor. One of them was coughing blood.
“Nay,” Margaret whispered, picking the first one up. “Ye’re coming, too.”
Smoke swirled all around them, swallowing the light that led to the way out. They had to get off the docked ship, one way or another. But Margaret knew that somewhere beyond that choking darkness, there was wind, there was air, there was freedom and MacLeod’s never left anyone behind.
She helped them toward the hatch, which was already open. Margaret showed the young girl in front of her and grabbed the arms of the other woman.
“Hold ontae her,” she instructed. “Dinnae stop running, nay matter what you see.”
The ladder that went up to the deck was hot beneath her palms. The wood was scorched and slick with soot. Smoke poured over the lip of the hatch, thick and choking, but she forced herself up, pushing the girls forward.
Finally, there was light, which she had not seen in days. But it was not daylight. It was firelight.
Flames licked up the mainmast, while smoke churned across the sky. Men shouted and clashed, and they were not just sailors; Margaret could see that immediately. There were two sides, dressed in distinct clothing, where one group wore the slavers’ rough browns and blues, while the others were finer. A slaver ran past them, bleeding from the shoulder, before he was tackled mid-run by another man who slit his throat in one motion.
A girl whimpered behind her.
“Stay low!” Margaret shouted. “Dinnae stop!”
She darted across the deck, the wood burning hot beneath her bare feet. One woman stumbled behind her, coughing so hard she could barely stand, but Margaret reached back, grabbed her arm, and dragged her. They could see the ladder over the port side. It dangled above the waves, the sea black and boiling with reflected fire.
“Almost there,” Margaret gasped, shoving them toward it. “Go!”
The girls hesitated; their eyes wide with terror.
“Go!” Margaret shouted again.
The girl lunged for the ladder, then began to descend. Margaret watched as the other girls went down, seizing the chance for their safety. Just as Margaret was about to go down herself, she saw a familiar face: Mary was running toward her, pulling Elsie by the hand.
“Here, quickly!” Margaret shouted in a breathless manner.
Without thinking, she urged them to go down. Elsie grabbed the ladder, stopping to look up.
“But what about ye?” she asked with a voice that was on the verge of breaking.
“I’ll be right behind ye, I promise,” Margaret said, squeezing Elsie’s hand.
Her heart was thudding inside her throat, while fear gripped at every fiber of her being. But she couldn’t stop now, not when they were all so close to freedom.
Finally, as she watched Elsie’s head disappear, she headed down herself, feeling thrilled. She could almost taste the freedom on her rough tongue, she could smell it coming to her on the wings of a breeze. Just as her feet touched solid ground, a hand seized her elbow.
“Ye’re nae going anywhere, lassie!”
Chapter Two
The voice belonged to Coyle.
His breath was hot and sour against her cheek as he yanked her back toward himself. Margaret twisted hard, but his grip on her elbow was like an iron vice. His filthy nails dug through the sleeve of her dress and into her skin.
“Too pretty tae toss intae a crowd right now, aye?” he murmured, dragging her in close. “Might be I fetch a fine coin fer ye later. Or maybe I’ll have me fill first. See what all the fuss is about.”
“Let go of me,” she hissed, trying to plant her heel into his instep, but he shifted, dodging the blow. Her heart thundered. “Let… go… of me!”
“Oh, I’ll let go,” he said, grinning with blackened teeth, “but nae till I’ve had a wee bit o’ fun.”
She shoved at his chest, but he barely budged. He was thick with muscle, and sweaty, taller than most, and with the mad gleam of a man who enjoyed fear. Behind them, the deck was still chaos. It was a shower of shouts, steel and smoke, but no one seemed to see her. No one came running to her help. The bastard had chosen his moment well.
He wrenched her around so her back hit the scorched railing, one hand slipping to her waist.
“I like ‘em feisty,” he muttered, in a dark voice that felt like quicksand. “Means they scream nice.”
Margaret went cold. She knew that fear and panic were not her friends. She had to think and act on the first thing that came to mind. She brought her knee up again, sharper this time, aiming for his groin, but he caught her leg mid-thrust and laughed.
“Ach, ye’re a clever one. That’ll earn ye time in chains when this is over.”
“Go tae hell!” she spat at him.
“I’ve lived there all me life, lass,” he sneered. “And I’ll drag ye there with me if I please.”
His hand moved higher.
Nae like this.
But before she could draw breath to scream again, a hand shot out from the smoke, grabbing Coyle by the shoulder and wrenching him backward with a force that made him stumble.
“What in hell—” he started, grabbing a nearby barrel for support.
The other man who faced him wasn’t a slaver. That much was clear in an instant.
His coat was scorched and slashed at the sleeve, the left side dark with blood. Nae his own, Margaret guessed. He was leaner than Coyle, but quicker, as his shoulders squared in a fighter’s stance, revealing a blade in his hand.
Margaret backed away, stumbling into the railing as the two men faced each other. Around them, the ship cracked and roared, smoke climbing like a living thing. A mast gave a terrible groan behind them, as it splintered above the chaos, but neither man looked away.
There was a dark scrape on the stranger’s jaw and a tear at the edge of his sleeve. Still, he stood untouched and ready, the kind of a man who could end a life with his hands and still walk away unbothered.
She should have been afraid, and yet, her body betrayed her. Heat stirred in her belly, reckless and unfamiliar. Her skin flushed as if waking for the first time in what felt like years. Her lips parted and her breathing came faster now, too shallow. She couldn’t look away from his hands, or the way the wind caught the edge of his coat and revealed the lean strength beneath. He was not handsome in the usual sense, but he was striking, nonetheless. He was danger personified in human form, and now, he was fighting for her.
Coyle’s snarl brought her back to the present moment.
“Who the hell are ye?”
Steel met steel with a harsh clang, and the air was suddenly alive with the fury of it. The men proceeded to slash, parry, throw curses between blows. Coyle fought like a brawler: ruthless, untrained, relying on brute strength and rage. But the stranger moved like a wolf. His manner was sharp, clean, and efficient.
Coyle tried to drive him back with his blade flashing, but he missed and nearly lost his footing. The stranger turned the miss into a strike, slicing low. The bastard grunted and staggered, blood blooming across his thigh. He bellowed and lunged, swinging high.
The stranger ducked. Steel flashed again and this time, the blade cut deep across the slaver’s side. The brute stumbled back with his one hand pressed to the wound. Blood oozed through his fingers.
“I’ll gut ye fer this,” he spat.
The man took a single step forward with his blade still raised. “Try.”
Coyle hesitated. Margaret doubted he had the bravado to fight the stranger again. As it turned out, she was right. Still limping, he disappeared into the smoke, leaving behind only the sound of his voice cursing them both.
For a moment, the ship blurred again. It was all one explosion of firelight, chaos and screams still echoing from the far side of the deck. The stranger lowered his blade but kept his eyes surveying the ship. Finally, he turned to Margaret.
“Are ye alright?” he asked.
Margaret stared at him with her throat raw and her heart slamming like a war drum. She didn’t know who he was. And worse yet, she didn’t know if he’d just saved her life or if he meant to take it for himself.
But she nodded just once, slowly.
“Aye,” she rasped. “Fer now.”
That was when the screams quieted. The smoke was still curling in waves across the deck. There were bodies lying scattered. Some were groaning, others were still. She knew what that meant. The mast had split partway, but the blaze hadn’t yet consumed the whole.
The slavers were down. It was the men in the dark coats, the ones she had thoughts of as buyers, that were now standing victorious, their boots streaked in soot and blood.
Margaret clenched her fists. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. She chose terrified.
The man who had pulled Coyle off her still hadn’t sheathed his blade as his gaze swept the deck. A moment later, another man approached him. He was younger, with a cut along his brow and a grin too relaxed for the situation. He nodded toward the slaver’s quarterdeck.
“Ship’s secured. Cargo hold’s clear. A few cowards jumped overboard when the flames started, but we rounded the rest up.”
The stranger gave a single nod, then turned back to Margaret. His dark eyes locked onto hers, and a million little goosebumps erupted throughout her body.
“Dae ye ken where the other slaves are?” he asked.
“Why?” she snarled defensively mustering the last drop of her courage.
She could see there was a bruise forming at the corner of his jaw, darkening already beneath the rough stubble. There was also a smear of blood above his brow. Everything about him was an utter mess, and still, he was undeniably attractive to her, in that maddening, dangerous way.
She had not been touched with kindness in weeks, not since her life had cracked open and spilled into darkness. And now, this man had stepped between her and harm without hesitation.
“Why?” she snarled defensively mustering the last drop of her courage against the onslaught that was this stranger and his damningly wicked smile.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Because they’re still below deck. And it’s burnin’.”
He was right. She knew that some of them had gotten away. But there were others, still left trapped below deck. She hoped that they had managed to free themselves somehow, though.
“Ye plan tae haul them out just tae sell them yerself? Go find them on yer own.”
He blinked in confusion, as if weighing whether to laugh or strike her. But he did neither. Instead, the corner of his mouth twitched, revealing a ghost of something like amusement.
“Feisty,” he murmured.
She hated the way that answer curled inside of her, like warmth and protection, like something she couldn’t let herself want or need.
“Dinnae patronize me.”
“I’m nae.”
She folded her arms. “Good.”
The wiry man beside him made a low sound, which resembled half laugh and half cough, but the stranger only took a slow step toward her. Margaret didn’t back down.
He studied her for a moment. “If I meant tae sell them, I wouldnae have gutted half a crew tae get this ship.”
“Maybe ye just dinnae like tae share,” she said feistily.
There was another flicker of that ghost smile.
“Ye’re right,” he finally said. “I dinnae.”
His tone was calm, mild even, but there was iron beneath it.
“And yet,” he added, “ye’re still breathing. So maybe take the help, lass, and ferget yer pride.”
She narrowed her eyes, while he held her gaze, refusing to look away even for a single moment. Her treacherous mind started to envision him smiling, shirtless, with the wind tugging at his hair, while her fingers traversed the protruding lines of his muscles…
That’s enough!
The truth was that she couldn’t see through him. There was nothing about him that allowed her to tilt the scales to either side. He might have been a ruthless killer, like any of the slavers were, or he might have been a savior. After all, had he not allowed her attacker to run away, granting him his life, although the villain didn’t deserve it?
Finally, with a sharp exhale, she turned away and jerked her chin toward the blackened hatch.
“Down there… port side. They were chained tae the beams, I dinnae ken if they managed tae free themselves like I did.”
All he did was flick his finger in that direction, and several men headed down there. He was still looking at her when he spoke.
“Ye what?”
“I broke me own chains,” she said, more fiercely than she intended. “I—I used the button from me dress and got the lock loose.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Ye opened iron chains with a button?”
“I didnae have a choice.”
The man stared at her for a long, unreadable moment.
“Ye freed yerself.”
She folded her arms across her chest, feeling for some reason, proud of herself that she shocked him with her skills. “That’s what I just said.”
“Ye’ve got sharp teeth,” he pointed out.
“I’ll use them,” she shot back. “If ye try tae put me in chains again.”
“Good.” He stepped toward her again, just once. He was close enough now that she could see the soot streaking his jawline, the tension at the corners of his mouth. “Ye willnae need them… nae with me.”
“Ye expect me tae believe that?” Her voice wavered between bitter and breathless, and it was all because of him. “Ye burn a slaver ship tae the waterline and act like a savior, but I’ve seen enough masks tae ken better.”
“I’m nae wearing one.”
“Right.” She snorted. “And ye just happened tae show up at the perfect moment?”
“That’s what happens,” he explained, “when ye make a habit of hunting men like them.”
Margaret blinked. Her heart still pounded with heat and rage. But he was closer now. And her breath caught for reasons that had nothing to do with smoke.
“Ye really expect me tae trust ye?” she whispered.
“I dinnae expect anything from ye,” he told her with a dismissive shrug of his broad shoulders. “But I’ll tell ye this, I dinnae take slaves. I kill the bastards who do.”
She looked at him… really looked. He was still dangerous. That was the part that didn’t change. It radiated from him in the way he held himself, as if every room, every ship, every battlefield was his to walk through unchallenged. He was darkness wrapped in command, in fury barely restrained. And she hated, no… utterly despised how drawn she was to that.
“I still dinnae trust ye,” she muttered.
He smirked. “Ye’re nae supposed tae.”
And blast him, there it was, that flicker in his eyes again.
She turned away fast, refusing to linger on it. “Just… help the girls.”
The stranger gave a single nod and turned back toward the hatch. But as he disappeared into the smoke again, Margaret’s fists clenched at her sides and she cursed herself.
She had no idea who he was. But if he wasn’t a slaver, he was something else entirely. And that, somehow, worried her even more…
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