Claimed by the Highland Sinner (Preview)
Chapter One
1647, Fraser Hidden Stronghold
The bowl slipped from Elena’s trembling fingers, crashing against the stone floor with a sound that barely registered above the roar of men’s laughter.
“Clumsy wench,” one of the slavers barked, his meaty hand shoving her hard enough that she stumbled against the rough-hewn table. “Clean it up.”
Elena dropped to her knees without a word, her chains clinking as she gathered the shards. Ten years. Ten years of serving these monsters their ale and their food, of keeping her head down and her mouth shut, of surviving one more day in the Vulture’s hidden stronghold.
The thought of Alistair Fraser—the man who had stolen her name, her life, everything—made her stomach clench, but at least tonight he was absent. No one had seen him for weeks now, and his absence had made the other slavers nervous, their cruelty sharper.
She worked quickly, her movements practiced. The great hall reeked of unwashed bodies and stale drink, the fire in the hearth casting dancing shadows across faces she’d learned to hate. Her wrists bore the permanent marks of iron, her hair—once carefully tended—now hung in a crude, uneven cut that she’d managed herself with a stolen blade.
The scars on her wrists caught the firelight as she moved, raised lines of damaged flesh that would never fade. She’d stopped caring about them years ago. Vanity was another luxury taken from her, along with her surname, her freedom, and any illusion that the world was just.
“More ale!” someone shouted, and Elena rose, moving toward the barrels with the same careful invisibility she’d perfected over the years.
She’d learned to make herself small, unremarkable. To move through rooms like a shadow, to anticipate needs before they were voiced, to never, ever draw unnecessary attention. The Vulture’s favorite, they called her, though the title made her skin crawl. It didn’t mean what the other slaves thought it meant. It meant he watched her more closely. It meant she had to be more careful.
As she poured ale into a filthy tankard, her mind drifted to the children locked in the dungeon below. Three new ones had arrived last week, terrified and crying. Elena had done what she could to comfort them, to teach them the rules of survival in that place, but God, she was so tired of watching innocence die in small, brutal increments.
She carried the tankard to one of the slavers, keeping her eyes downcast as she set it before him.
“The Vulture’s been gone a long time,” he said, his breath reeking of drink. “Maybe it’s time we stopped treating his favorites so special, aye?”
Elena’s heart hammered against her ribs, but she kept her face carefully blank. “I dinnae ken where he is, sir.”
“Didnae ask ye that, did I?” He grabbed her wrist as the main doors burst open with a crash that splintered wood, and Elena’s heart leaped into her throat. The man released her immediately, scrambling for his weapon. Steel rang against steel as armed men flooded into the hall, their battle cries drowning out the slavers’ shouts of alarm.
For one frozen moment, Elena simply stared at the chaos erupting around her. Then her survival instincts kicked in, sharp and certain. Run. Now.
She bolted toward the servants’ entrance, her chains clinking with each desperate step.
Almost there. Just a few more steps to the narrow corridor that led to the kitchens, to the back entrance she’d memorized years ago for moments exactly like this—
Her chains snagged on a fallen chair, and Elena crashed to the floor hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. Pain exploded through her knees and palms as she hit the stone. Before she could recover, rough hands grabbed her from behind.
“Got ye,” one of the slavers snarled, yanking her backward by the chains. The iron bit into her ankles, cutting into the permanent scars there, and she bit back a cry. “Ye arenae goin’ anywhere.”
He dragged her across the stone floor, and Elena clawed at the ground, her fingernails scraping uselessly against the rock. They were surrounded by the clash of swords, the wet sound of blades finding flesh, men dying and killing in equal measure. She’d seen violence before, had learned to weather it with detachment, but this was different. This was war condensed into a single room.
Through the tangle of fighting men, she caught a glimpse of one of the attackers—and her breath caught in her throat.
Dark hair. Storm-gray eyes. The sharp line of a jaw she’d know anywhere, even though it was harder now, carved by time and grief into something almost unfamiliar.
No. It couldn’t be.
Her brother had been nineteen when she’d been taken, barely more than a boy, despite his warrior’s training. This man was nearly thirty, weathered by battle and loss, his face bearing the weight of years she hadn’t shared. The resemblance was there… God, it was there in every line of him. But it was impossible. Tristan thought her dead. Her family had given up searching years ago—or so she’d assumed after the first few years had passed with no rescue, no sign that anyone was still looking. She’d made her peace with that truth, had buried it deep where it couldn’t hurt her anymore.
She was seeing ghosts. That was all. The stress of the attack, the desperate hope that rose unbidden despite everything she’d learned about hope’s cruelty—it was making her see things that weren’t there.
Then she saw the man fighting beside him, and her thoughts scattered completely.
Tall and broad-shouldered, with black hair and sharp green eyes that blazed with controlled fury as he cut down a slaver. He moved like a predator—all coiled strength and deadly grace, every motion precise and purposeful. Even in the chaos, even with blood spraying and men dying around him, there was something almost beautiful about the way he fought. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Just cold, lethal competence.
Elena couldn’t look away. There was something magnetic about him, something that drew her eye even as the slaver dragging her cursed and yanked harder on her chains.
The green-eyed warrior dispatched another attacker, his blade catching the firelight as it arced through the air. His face was set in hard lines, his jaw tight with concentration.
The slaver hauling her chains cursed as one of the attackers came too close, and he released her to draw his weapon. Elena scrambled backward on her hands and knees, her chains grating against stone, her palms stinging where she’d scraped them raw. She tried to get back on her feet, to run again, but a different set of hands grabbed her from behind.
“Get them all below!” one of the slavers shouted. “Now! If we lose the merchandise, Fraser will have our heads!”
“Fraser’s dead, ye fool!” someone else yelled back.
Alistair couldn’t be dead. He was eternal, inevitable, the vulture who’d haunted her nightmares for a decade.
Elena didn’t have time to process it. She was hauled to her feet and shoved hard toward the dungeon entrance. She tried to resist, tried to dig her heels in, but the chains made it impossible to get proper leverage. Another shove sent her stumbling through the doorway and down the stone steps.
She tried to catch herself, but her chained ankles tangled and she fell hard, tumbling down the last few steps and landing in a heap at the bottom. Pain exploded through her shoulder and hip, and for a moment the world went white. She tasted blood where she’d bitten her tongue.
In the darkness, small voices whimpered.
“It’s all right,” Elena said, pushing herself up despite the pain radiating through her shoulder. Her eyes adjusted to the dim torchlight and she saw the huddled forms of children pressed against the far wall. “Stay quiet. Stay taegether.”
She limped over to them, her chains dragging, and gathered them close.
The youngest, a girl of perhaps six with matted blonde hair, clung to Elena’s tattered dress with white-knuckled fingers. Elena smoothed her hair with gentle motions.
“What’s happenin’?” one of the boys whispered, his voice cracking with fear. He was maybe ten, with haunted eyes that had seen far too much.
“I dinnae ken,” Elena admitted, because lying to them would be cruel. “But whatever it is, we stay here. We stay quiet. Understand?”
They nodded, pressing closer together.
Above them, the sounds of battle continued. Screams and steel and the thud of bodies hitting the floor. Elena tried not to imagine what was happening there, tried not to hope that the attackers were winning because hope was dangerous and she couldn’t afford it.
Then the sounds changed. Footsteps thundered on the stairs. Many feet.
“Away from the door,” Elena said. “Behind me. Now.”
The dungeon door exploded inward with a crash that made the children scream.
Men poured through—slavers and attackers alike, their battle spilling into the confined space like water through a broken dam. Elena pressed the children harder against the wall, making herself as small as possible while trying to shield them with her body. Her heart hammered so hard she thought it might break through her ribs.
Steel flashed in the torchlight. Blood sprayed across ancient stone, painting it darker. The metallic smell of it filled the air, mixing with sweat and fear and the acrid scent of smoke from somewhere above.
A slaver fell near her feet, his throat opened in a red smile, his eyes already glazing over. Elena didn’t look at his face. She’d learned years ago not to see them as human, because that made it harder to endure, harder to survive.
She heard a slaver’s voice, high with panic and rage. “The girl! Get the Vulture’s favorite before these bastards—”
Two of them broke away from the main fight, pushing past the attackers with desperate determination. They were coming for her specifically. Elena’s stomach dropped.
She shoved the children harder against the wall and grabbed a broken piece of wood from a shattered crate that had been in the corner. Her hands closed around it, splinters biting into her palms, and she swung it hard as the first slaver reached for her.
The wood connected with his face with a satisfying crack. He reeled back, cursing, blood streaming from his nose. “Ye little—”
But the other one grabbed her arm and twisted until she cried out, her makeshift weapon clattering to the floor. His fingers dug into her flesh.
A blade flashed in the torchlight, and suddenly the slaver holding her was falling, his grip releasing as steel burst through his chest from behind. Blood sprayed hot across Elena’s face and neck. The slaver crumpled to the ground, and Elena stumbled backward.
The man with the black hair and green eyes stood before her.
Up close, he was overwhelming. Taller than she’d realized, broad-shouldered and solid, his presence seeming to fill the entire dungeon. His sword was bloody, his chest heaving with exertion, and his face was streaked with grime and blood. His green eyes blazed with intensity.
Something in Elena’s chest tightened in a way she didn’t understand, a visceral reaction that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way he looked at her—not with pity, not with lust, but with something that looked almost like recognition.
His face was all hard angles and sharp lines, shadowed with stubble that emphasized the strong line of his jaw. His green eyes were the kind that saw everything, missed nothing. His black hair was tied back, though strands had come loose during the fighting, falling across his forehead.
He was handsome in a rough, dangerous way that made Elena’s breath catch. It wasn’t the polished beauty of noblemen she’d known in her youth, but something rawer, more real. The kind of face that had seen violence and survived it, that carried the weight of hard choices and harder consequences.
“Alistair Fraser is dead,” he said. “This is over. Ye’re free.”
Elena stared at him. Free. The word didn’t make sense. It was a concept from another life, a fantasy she’d stopped entertaining years ago. Freedom wasn’t real. It was a lie people told themselves to make the cages more bearable.
“I dinnae believe ye,” she whispered.
His green eyes softened slightly. His stance remained alert, protective. Around them, the sounds of battle were dying down. The clash of steel gave way to the moans of wounded men and sharp commands. But he didn’t look away from her.
“I ken it’s hard tae believe,” he said, and there was something in his voice, an understanding that went deeper than simple sympathy. “But it’s true, lass. Alistair Fraser is dead. We killed him weeks ago. This”—he gestured to the carnage around them without taking his eyes off her—”is just cleaning up what’s left of his operation.”
Weeks ago. The Vulture had been gone for weeks, and Elena had thought… what? That he was simply conducting business elsewhere? That he’d return with new victims, new horrors? She’d been preparing herself for his return, steeling herself for whatever fresh cruelty he’d devised.
“He’s truly dead?”
“Aye. I watched him die meself. The bastard got exactly what he deserved, and then some.”
Behind the green-eyed warrior, the sounds of battle had almost completely died away. She could hear victorious shouts now, the clash of swords giving way to the business of securing the stronghold and tending to the wounded. His men, she realized. They’d won.
“Who are ye?” Elena asked, studying him more closely. He wore no colors, no clan insignia, just practical fighting leathers and a well-worn sword belt. But there was authority in the way he carried himself, in the way other fighters moved around him with deference, seeking his approval or awaiting his commands.
“Brian Gunn,” he said, lowering his sword slightly though he kept himself positioned between her and the door, between her and any potential threat. “Second-in-command tae Laird Tristan MacRae of Jura. We’ve been hunting Fraser’s operations fer years.”
Jura.
The name hit Elena like a physical blow, stealing what little breath she’d managed to recover. Her home. The island she’d been taken from a lifetime ago. The place she’d stopped letting herself think about because remembering only made the cage smaller, the chains heavier.
“Jura,” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper.
Brian’s eyes sharpened, and she saw the moment he made the connection. “Ye’re from Jura?”
Before Elena could answer—before she could even begin to process what it meant that her brother’s second-in-command was standing in front of her—another figure appeared in the doorway.
The man she’d thought looked like Tristan stood silhouetted against the torchlight from the stairs, his sword hanging loose in his grip, his chest heaving. His storm-gray eyes swept the dungeon—cataloging the freed children, the dead slavers, the green-eyed warrior standing protectively in front of a woman he didn’t yet recognize.
Then those eyes landed on Elena, and the world stopped.
Every muscle in his body went rigid. His face drained of color, going white beneath the grime and blood. His sword fell from nerveless fingers, clattering against the stone floor with a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the sudden, terrible silence.
“It…” His voice cracked, breaking on the single syllable. “It cannae be.”
Elena’s world tilted sideways. She knew that voice. She’d heard it in her dreams for ten years, had clung to the memory of it during the worst nights, and had eventually forced herself to forget it because remembering hurt too much. She knew those eyes, even if they were set in a face that had hardened into something both familiar and strange.
He wasn’t a ghost. It wasn’t her mind playing tricks.
It was her brother.
“Elena?” Tristan MacRae, her brother, her family, the person she’d thought she’d never see again, took a stumbling step forward. His voice was raw. “Elena, is it truly ye?”
Chapter Two
“Dinnae touch me.”
The words came out sharper than Elena intended, but Tristan froze mid-step, his hand still outstretched. The hurt that flashed across his face made her chest ache, but she couldn’t let him close the distance between them. If he touched her, if he tried to embrace her like the sister he remembered, she would shatter into a thousand pieces.
“Elena, I—” His voice cracked. “I thought ye were dead. We all thought—”
“I was dead,” she said flatly. “The girl ye kenned died ten years ago.”
Tristan flinched as if she’d struck him. His hand dropped to his side, and for a long moment they simply stared at each other across the blood-stained dungeon floor—two strangers wearing the faces of family.
“We need tae go,” Brian’s rough voice cut through the tension. He hadn’t moved from his protective position between them, and Elena was grateful for it. “Now. Before any of Fraser’s men regroup.”
Tristan nodded numbly, still unable to tear his eyes from Elena. “Can ye walk?”
“Aye.” Elena straightened her spine, refusing to show weakness even though her shoulder throbbed and her legs trembled. She’d survived ten years in hell—she could manage a walk to a ship.
“What about the bairns?” She gestured to the children still huddled behind her.
“All of them come with us,” Brian said firmly. “Everyone we found. Nay one gets left behind.”
Elena turned to the children, keeping her voice calm and steady. “Come on, then. Stay close tae me. Dinnae look at the bodies. Just keep yer eyes on me back and follow where I go.”
They organized quickly, the freed captives—children and women alike—clinging to Elena’s tattered dress or staying close behind her as they moved toward the stairs. Brian led the way, his sword still drawn, while Tristan fell back to guard their rear. Elena kept herself in the middle, acutely aware of her brother’s presence behind her but unable to look at him.
The great hall above was a slaughterhouse. Bodies sprawled across the floor, blood pooling between the stones. Elena didn’t look at the faces as she guided the children through the carnage with steady hands and soft words.
When they finally emerged into the night air, Elena stopped dead.
The sky. Stars scattered across black velvet, the moon hanging full and bright. The smell of salt and sea instead of blood and fear. She’d almost forgotten what freedom tasted like.
“Elena?” Tristan’s voice was gentle, uncertain.
She ignored him, tilting her face toward the stars and breathing deeply. Behind her, the children pressed close, and she gathered them.
“The chains,” she said quietly, not looking at anyone in particular. “Can someone remove the chains?”
Brian knelt before her without a word. His movements were slow, deliberate, giving her time to pull away if she wanted. Elena held still, watching as he examined the locks on her ankles. His hands were careful, never touching her skin more than necessary.
The first chain fell away with a soft clink that sounded like salvation.
He worked the second lock, his black hair falling forward to shadow his face. Elena found herself studying him. The strong line of his jaw, the concentration in his green eyes, the way his shoulders moved beneath his fighting leathers. There was something enthralling about his quiet competence, the way he accomplished tasks without fanfare or expectation of gratitude.
The second chain fell free.
Elena stared down at her scarred ankles. Permanent bands where iron had rubbed for years. Her breathing went ragged, and for a moment the world tilted sideways.
“Thank ye,” she whispered.
Brian rose to his feet, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her stomach flutter. “It’s naething.”
But it was everything.
***
The ship rocked gently beneath Elena’s feet as they sailed away from the stronghold. She gripped the railing, watching the dark mass of land disappear into the night. Around her, freed captives huddled in small groups, wrapped in blankets. Everyone looked shell-shocked.
Elena understood the feeling. Her mind felt fractured, unable to reconcile freedom with the reality she’d known for a decade.
She kept her distance from Tristan. Her brother stood at the bow alone, his shoulders tense, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He kept glancing back at Elena, his expression a complicated mix of hope and uncertainty, but he didn’t approach.
Elena was grateful for that.
“Ye should go tae him,” Brian said, appearing at her elbow.
Elena turned to find him leaning against the railing. “I dinnae ken what tae say tae him.”
“How about ‘thank ye fer spending ten years hunting the man who took me’?” There was no judgment in his tone, just rough honesty. “Or ‘I’m alive’? That seems tae be goin’ over well with the rest of us.”
Elena’s lips twitched. “Ye have a strange sense of humor.”
“Aye, well, I’ve been told I’m nae exactly cheery company.” He paused. “He thought ye were dead, lass. Fer ten years. Give him a moment tae adjust.”
“I thought I was dead too. The girl he knew… she is dead. I’m nae her anymore.”
Brian was silent for a long moment. When she glanced at him, she found him watching her with something that looked almost like understanding.
“My cousin,” he said finally. “Maisie. She was taken by slavers eight years ago. I’ve been searching fer her ever since.” He paused, and she could see the desperate hope warring with dread in his expression. “Did ye ever… in yer time there, did ye meet a Maisie Gunn?”
Elena’s heart sank. She’d seen that hope before. It was in the faces of family members searching for lost loved ones. It always ended the same way.
“Nay,” she said softly. “I never met anyone by that name. I’m sorry.”
The light in Brian’s eyes dimmed, but he nodded stiffly. “Aye. Well. It was a long shot.”
They stood in silence, the wind whipping Elena’s short hair around her face. He looked like a man carrying the weight of the world, and she recognized that burden because she’d been carrying her own version for years.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Jura. Tristan’s lands. He and his wife have established a center there fer people like ye… Those who’ve been freed from the slavers. Ye’ll be safe there.”
Jura. Her childhood home. The thought made Elena’s stomach churn with a complicated tangle of emotions she couldn’t name.
“And ye? Where will ye go?”
“Me faither has summoned me back tae Clan Gunn. There’s trouble with our neighbors tae the north. Raiders, possibly backed by rival clans. I’m needed there.”
Elena’s chest tightened. She barely knew this man, but the thought of going to Jura without him, of facing her brother’s expectations alone…
“How long have ye been fighting slavers?” she asked, desperate to keep him talking.
“Since Maisie was taken. Tristan started his crusade after he lost ye.” He glanced at her. “Ye were the reason he started all this.”
The weight of that settled over Elena like a shroud. Her brother had spent ten years dismantling slave networks because of her. Because he’d thought her dead and wanted vengeance. And now she was alive, and what was she supposed to do with that?
“I cannae go tae Jura,” Elena said suddenly.
Brian’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“I cannae.” The words tumbled out faster now. “Dinnae ye understand? Me braither… he’s going tae expect me tae be the girl he lost. He’s going tae want me tae go back tae being a laird’s daughter, tae wear fine dresses and smile and pretend that the last ten years didnae happen.”
“Elena—”
“And I cannae be that person anymore. I dinnae even remember how. He has a wife now. He daesnae need a broken sister who’ll only remind him of his failure.”
“It wasnae his failure,” Brian said, his voice hard.
“Tell that tae the guilt I saw in his eyes.” Elena turned to face him fully, gripping the railing behind her. “Please. Let me come with ye. Tae Clan Gunn.”
Brian’s eyes widened. “That’s… lass, that’s nae possible.”
“Why nae?”
“Because yer braither would never allow it. Ye’re his family. He’s been searching fer ye fer a decade—”
“And now he’s found me. He kens I’m alive. Isnae that enough?” Elena heard the desperation in her voice but couldn’t stop it. “I dinnae want tae be locked in a castle again, even a safe one. I dinnae want tae be watched and pitied and treated like I’m made of glass.”
“So ye want tae come tae Gunn lands, where we’re preparing fer possible war?” Brian’s tone was incredulous.
“I want to go somewhere where there are nay expectations. I want tae dae something. Tae be useful. Tae matter.” Elena lifted her chin. “I can work. I can help. I’m nae useless.”
“I never said ye were. But Tristan—”
“Will say nay. I ken that.” Elena took a breath. “But maybe… maybe if ye talked tae him. Found a way tae convince him that this is what I need.”
“Ye’re asking me tae help ye run away from yer own braither?”
“I’m asking ye tae help me choose me own path fer the first time in ten years. Please, Brian. I cannae… I cannae go back tae being caged. Even if it’s a golden cage.”
Brian’s green eyes searched her face. “He’ll say nay” he warned.
“Then we’ll have tae be convincing.” Elena surprised herself with a small smile. “Ye seem like a man who’s good at getting what he wants.”
“Ye’ve known me fer all of an hour, lass. That’s quite the assessment.”
“I’ve had ten years tae learn how tae read men quickly.” The smile faded. “It’s a survival skill.”
Brian’s expression darkened. “Aye. I suppose it would be.”
They stood there as the ship cut through dark water, and Elena felt the first tiny spark of something hopeful. This man with his battle-worn face didn’t look at her with pity. He didn’t try to tell her what she needed or who she should be.
He just listened.
“I’ll try,” Brian said finally. “But I’m nae promising anything. It is a very unusual situation, bringing the unescorted sister of a laird under me protection tae me castle. If he says nay, then ye’ll accept it with grace. Understood?”
Elena nodded, though they both knew it was a lie. She’d spent ten years learning that sometimes survival meant breaking promises, even to yourself.
“Understood,” she said.
Brian pushed off from the railing. “Get some rest, lass. We’ve a long journey ahead.”
As he walked away, Elena found her gaze following him. She took in the breadth of his shoulders, the controlled power in his movements, the way he stopped to speak gently to one of the frightened children before continuing toward Tristan.
She didn’t know why she’d asked that particular man for help. Perhaps because he’d been the first to free her chains. Perhaps because he understood loss in a way her brother, now that he had found her, could not.
Or perhaps because when his green eyes had met hers, she had not seen pity.
Only recognition.
Elena turned back to the dark water, her fingers ghosting over the scars on her wrists. Across the deck, she could see Brian approaching Tristan, could see her brother’s expression shift from confusion to concern as they spoke in low voices.
She didn’t let herself hope. Hope was dangerous.
But for the first time in ten years, she let herself want something beyond simple survival.
And even that was dangerous.
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