Author: Lyla Rosewood

Chapter One

1653, Calder Castle

It was a cold, wet day when Lady Grizel Calder was faced with the true scope of her father’s ruin. It was not reckoned in silver, nor in acres of failing land, but in the cold, deliberate manner with which he meant to sell her. She was the price to be paid.

Outside the study windows, the March wind worried at the old stone of Calder Castle and sent a thin whistling through the cracks, so that even the fire on the hearth seemed to burn with unease. The room smelled of peat smoke, damp wool, and the bitter tang of sealing wax. Her father, Laird Amhlaidh Calder, stood with one hand braced upon the great oak desk, his papers spread before him in apparent disarray, that was too carefully arranged to be accidental. He had always loved the appearance of order most when matters were desperate.

“Sit down, Grizel.”

His voice was graver than usual, and she obeyed, though not from meekness. She sat because she wished to hear her sentence clearly, and because a lady ought, at the very least, to meet the destruction of her peace with a straight spine.

The leather of the chair was cold through her gown. She folded her hands in her lap to keep him from seeing they were not entirely steady.

“Is something the matter, Faither?”

He did not answer at once. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft hiss of the fire and the tapping of bare branches against the pane. At length he exhaled, as if what he had to say had the weight of misfortune upon it, though Grizel suspected that, to him, the chief misfortune lay in the necessity of saying it aloud.

“There has been an offer.”

She looked at him. “For the eastern grazing?” she asked, though she knew already by the strange compression in his mouth that the matter was much worse.

“Nae.”

The single word dropped between them like a stone into black water.

He moved around the writing table then and faced her straight on, and in that instant, she saw not her father as she had known him in childhood, the towering, unquestioned master of Calder, but rather as a man thinned by pride and debt, by sleepless nights and letters he did not wish his daughter to read.

The cuffs of his coat were brushed but frayed, and the signet on his hand flashed dully in the firelight. He had the look of a man who had fought ruin for too long and had at last determined to make terms with it.

“It is for ye.”

Though her breath caught, she lifted her chin. “I was nae aware,” she answered, “that I had been listed among the cattle.”

His eyes narrowed, but he let the insolence pass. That troubled her more than reproof would have done.

“This is nae time for cleverness, lass. Ye have tae marry.”

The wind rose outside, flinging sleet against the glass with a sharp rattle. Grizel heard it distinctly, and afterward, would always remember the sound of the storm scratching to be let in while her father calmly arranged to send her out into one far worse.

“Tae whom?”

He hesitated. A queer chill moved over her skin. There were names she had half-feared these last months. They belonged to grasping men with broad acres and broader appetites, widowers with inconvenient children, and dull noblemen whose conversation alone might have been counted a cruelty. Yet none of them prepared her for the name he finally pronounced.

“Laird Beathan Drummond.”

For one stunned moment, the room lost all proportion. The fire became too hot, and the air too close. Her senses heightened, she smelledthe resin of the writing table polish, the burnt edge of peat, and the faint sourness of rain-damp stone. All of it grew unnaturally vivid, the natural reaction of a body readying itself for danger.

“Drummond?” she repeated, though she had heard perfectly.

“Aye.”

“Nae.”

It escaped her before she could dress it in civility. She rose so quickly the chair legs grated across the floor. “Nae. Ye cannae mean it, Faither.”

“I wish there was another way, lass,” he sighed heavily, raking his fingers through his hair. “But there isnae.”

She was shaking her head in disbelief. “Beathan Drummond is old enough tae have dandled me on his knee.”

Her father frowned. “He is a man of consequence.”

“He is a man of violence.”

Her father’s mouth hardened. “Ye speak from rumor, just like everyone else.”

“I speak,” Grizel spoke, and now the blood had rushed to her face, warming it with indignation, “from memory.”

She could see it clear as day: the ballroom at Inveraray in the spring, awash in candlelight and beeswax and perfume, the crush of silk sleeves and murmuring voices. Drummond’s hand at her back had been too firm, and his smile too fixed. He had claimed one dance, then another, and then a third, though she had withdrawn as often as decency allowed. There had been wine on his breath, and something else beneath it, some rank odor of possession, as if he had already decided that whatever he touched had to remain in his grasp. He had not spoken to her as a gentleman spoke to a lady, but as a buyer examined cloth.

Even now the memory left a stain of revulsion upon her.

“He would nae let me leave his side,” she reminded him, speaking softer now, because fury, if too keenly felt, always approached tears.

“Some would say that he was admiring ye,” her father corrected.

“He cornered me, hunted me.”

Her father turned away, moving back behind the writing table as if the width of it had the power to restore his authority. “Admiration in a man is nae crime.”

“Nae,” she agreed. “But murder ought tae be.”

His gaze flashed up. “Ye have tae be careful of yer words, Grizel. Making an enemy of such a man is nae good for anyone.”

“Does he deny it?”

He inhaled deeply before speaking. “There was never any proof.”

“There was a dead wife.”

He sighed. “Grizel… ye have always been outspoken, but ye can nae speak tae me of what powerful men may or may nae have done when our own house stands on the brink of ruin. Drummond offers security, settlement of debt, protection of title. Without it…”

Without it, Calder would continue its slow collapse of restless tenants, fallen revenues, emboldened creditors and neighbors akin to crows watching over a wounded beast. She knew all this. She had known it long before her father guessed she did. But knowledge did not soften the horror.

She stared at him. “Is there truly nae other path?”

He stared at her not as a man offended, but as one who had been struck in a place already bruised. His hand tightened on the edge of the parchment, then fell away from it helplessly.

“There is nae, I swear tae ye. I have been thinking on it, but… nae.”

The words lay between them, flat and final. Grizel turned her face slightly toward the window lest he should see the breadth of her unease.

On the far hills, a line of mist had settled like a grey veil. Somewhere below, in the yard, a stable door banged once, then again. The castle seemed suddenly full of sounds she had never before counted, the clink of a harness, the draft under the door, and the faint settling groan of old timber. All at once she loved it with the crushing, painful tenderness one feels only when something is being taken away.

Then, because despair was a luxury she could not afford, she forced herself to think. When she turned back, her voice was composed.

“If I must marry,” she mused, “then allow me one week.”

He frowned. “For what?”

“For a better offer.”

A bleak laugh escaped him. “Ye speak as if suitors may be plucked like apples.”

“I speak,” she returned, “as a Calder ought tae speak when cornered. One week, Faither. If I fail, ye may dae as ye please. At the end of the week, if I have nae secured an alliance better suited tae our name and safety, I shall nae oppose ye again.”

His fingers moved restlessly over the edge of the papers on his desk. “And where dae ye imagine ye will find this miraculous, better husband?”

“I imagine,” Grizel retorted, “that it is me business tae try.”

He was silent long enough that she heard a cinder collapse in the grate with a soft red sigh.

“Drummond will nae like delay.” He sounded apologetic. She knew that he was.

“He is nae asked tae like it,” she told him rebelliously.

He sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. “Ye dinnae understand the sort of man he is.”

Her laugh was thin and without mirth. “On the contrary, Faither, I believe I understand him better than ye wish.”

That seemed to strike him, though he would not admit it. He rubbed a hand across his brow and looked suddenly older, the lines about his mouth deepening in uneasy grooves.

“There is worse news,” he told her.

A thread of dread tightened inside her. “What could be worse?”

He did not meet her eyes at first. “He has already sent his men.”

The silence that followed was so complete she could hear the faint beat of her own pulse.

“Sent them where?”

“Here, tae escort ye.”

The room tilted, only slightly, but enough that Grizel had to place a hand on the chair-back.

Escort.

Such a pretty word, polished and harmless, set over an outrage like lace laid atop a wound.

“But, nae agreement has been made yet,” she reminded him.

“Aye, it has nae. There has been nae signed agreement, nor word before witnesses. But men like him usually consider such matters settled based solely on their own desires.”

Rage overtook her, burning away the last of her fear. “Then he presumes above his station.”

“He presumes because men have allowed him tae prosper by presuming,” her father spoke with a weary bitterness she had not expected. “Listen tae me now. If ye mean tae attempt this wild scheme, ye cannae dae so openly. If his men arrive and find ye gone, there will be consequence enough. If they find ye in the act of leaving…”

He stopped. The fire crackled. Rain tapped harder at the pane.

Grizel drew a slow breath. The taste of smoke sat at the back of her throat. “Then I must nae be found.”

At that, he finally looked at her, not as a laird looking upon an asset, nor quite as a father looking upon a daughter, but as a man measuring the resolve of another and finding it unexpectedly firm.

“One week, Grizel,” he agreed at last. “And nae a day more. I cannae delay him longer.”

It was not a blessing, nor forgiveness, nor love that she got from her father, it was merely time. And time was what she needed.

She inclined her head respectfully, because triumph would have been foolish. “Thank ye, Faither.”

“Dae nae thank me.” His voice roughened, making her grasp the full severity of the situation. “I have put him off with talk of terms, witnesses and proper forms. But ye can nae underestimate Drummond. Men like him are never so dangerous as when refused.”

Grizel thought of the ballroom again, of his hand pressing too hard at her waist, of the gleam in his eye when she had withdrawn hers from his grasp. She did not underestimate him. That was precisely why she meant to run.

She left the study with her heart still beating hard, but no longer wildly. The corridors of Calder Castle stretched before her in the dimming light, familiar stone and worn rushes and the faint mingled scents of rosemary, smoke, and damp wool. A servant passed carrying linens, and somewhere in the lower hall a hound barked once. Everything looked so ordinary that she might almost have doubted the exchange had taken place, had not her entire future altered with it.

In her chamber, she packed swiftly and with care, taking a dark riding cloak, some spare linen, a comb, the little dagger she kept hidden though no one knew it, and what coin she could gather without notice. She took only what would fit into one small satchel.

There was no room for sentiment. Yet when her hand brushed the carved box that had once belonged to her mother, she paused.

Not sentiment, perhaps. Memory.

She shut the lid and left it where it was.

Night had deepened by the time she slipped down the back stairs. The air in the stable yard struck cold and wet against her face, smelling of rain, churned earth, and horses. The lantern by the stable door swayed in the wind, sending light across puddles black as ink. Storm stamped softly in his stall when he saw her, then tossed his head with a low, impatient sound, as if he too understood haste.

“Hush, lad,” she whispered, though her own breath had shortened.

His coat was warm beneath her palm, sleek and dark as night. The leather of the saddle creaked as she tightened it with numbed fingers. She could hear her blood pumping frantically in her ears, the scrape of straw and the faint clatter of tack from somewhere farther down the row. Every sound seemed perilously loud.

When at last she led him into the yard, the wind caught her cloak and flung it hard about her ankles. Above, the clouds had swallowed the moon. Calder Castle loomed behind her in massed shadow, its towers black against a sky the color of iron.

One week, she thought.

One week to save herself from Beathan Drummond.

One week to bargain with fate before fate closed its hand around her neck.

Grizel set her boot to the stirrup and mounted. Then, gathering the reins in gloved fingers that no longer trembled, she turned Storm toward the dark road and rode out of Calder lands as quietly as a prayer and twice as desperate.

Chapter Two

The harbor smelled of salt, tar, fish-guts, and rain.

Grizel crouched behind a stack of weather-darkened crates and drew her cloak tighter about her shoulders, though it was not the cold that made her fingers stiff. Oban Harbor swarmed before her in a confusion of shouting men, creaking ropes, gulls wheeling and crying overhead, and carts grinding through the mud with a wet, miserable sound. The sea beyond was the color of beaten pewter, restless beneath a low sky, and every gust of wind flung brine into the air until it lay sharp on her lips.

She had found him.

That, at least, was something.

MacAulay’s ship rose at the dock not fifty yards from where she was hiding. It was long, lean, and dark in the water, with red sails furled high above like folded wings. Men moved briskly on the deck and gangplank with the easy confidence of those who belonged there. Barrels were rolled aboard. Coils of rope were hauled into place. Orders were called in rough, carrying voices. There was purpose in every motion, and a kind of severe economy she found at once intimidating and promising.

Somewhere on that vessel was Laird Malcolm MacAulay… her last chance.

Grizel shifted her weight slightly, pressing one gloved hand to the crate beside her. The wood was rough, damp with sea mist and smelling faintly of apples long since removed. She peered around the edge again, careful not to let even a fold of her cloak betray her position.

She could not yet distinguish which of the men on the deck was MacAulay, if he was visible at all. Rumor had given him many shapes these past days: a pirate, a former privateer, a laird more loyal to survival than sentiment, a man who bent when needed and cut when forced.

In addition to all that, she had heard that the king’s decree had not spared him. The pirate lairds were to marry Highland ladies within the year or face the slow strangling hand of the Crown. A wife, then, was no longer merely a domestic ornament or private desire. She was leverage, legitimacy and, protection.

And Grizel, could offer herself as means to meet that need.

The first problem stood across the harbor mouth in the shape of two broad-shouldered men who had not ceased haunting her steps since the outskirts of the town. Drummond’s men did not wear his colors openly, but they had his look upon them. One was leaning against a post near a fishmonger’s stall, speaking to no one and watching everything. The other loitered nearer the quay, with his cap pulled low, his hands tucked in his belt, and his attention wandering with too much purpose to be mistaken for idleness.

The second problem was worse yet.

MacAulay did not seem to come ashore.

Since dawn she had watched, hidden where she could, shifting from alley to stacked cargo to the lee of a cooper’s shed, only to discover that the man she sought seemed to have no intention of setting foot on the dock at all. Whatever business he had in Oban, he conducted it from the ship. Men went to him, none summoned him down. If she meant to speak with Laird Malcolm MacAulay, she had no choice but to board his vessel.

A gull landed atop the crates above her, gave a harsh, laughing cry, and flapped away again. Grizel closed her eyes for a moment.

This was madness. It had been madness in Calder. It had been madness on the road. It was madness here, in this reeking, noisy harbor at the edge of the sea. Yet there are moments when a lady’s alternatives are so poor that the only reasonable path is boldness in the face of chaos.

She looked again toward the ship. The tide had shifted. A longboat had just come in. Two sailors were arguing over a cask. The nearer of Drummond’s men had turned his head toward a cartload of herring being unloaded with much profanity and confusion.

And the ship was to depart within hours.

Now, then. If ever, now.

Grizel drew one careful breath, tasting salt and rain and the iron tang of fear at the back of her throat. Then she gathered her skirts in one hand, adjusted the satchel at her side, and slipped out from behind the crates.

At first, she moved with measured speed, keeping her head bowed, as though she were nothing more than another woman of the port with business of her own. Her boots struck the slick boards of the quay with soft, quick sounds. A rope brushed her ankle. A porter shouted behind her. She did not look left or right.

Ten yards… fifteen. The gangplank lay just ahead, crowded by two sailors lifting a chest between them.

Then someone barked. “There!”

Her blood turned to fire. Grizel ran.

Behind her came the unmistakable pound of heavy boots and a curse flung in the wind. She darted past a stack of barrels, nearly collided with a boy carrying nets, and heard him yelp as he stumbled aside. The harbor exploded into motion around her. She could both hear and see men turning, voices rising, gulls shrieking upward in alarm. Her cloak streamed behind her. Her breath tore in her chest. The wet boards slipped beneath her boots, and only desperation kept her from falling.

“Stop her!”

She reached the gangplank just as one of MacAulay’s sailors straightened in astonishment.

“What the devil—”

That was all he managed to say before she brushed past him with all the dignity of a hunted fawn and flew onto the deck.

The ship seemed to lurch beneath her, though perhaps it was only her own panic. The boards were dark and damp, smelling of pitch, salt, and old storms. Voices raised around her in sudden confusion.

Two of Drummond’s men came up after her at once. One caught her cloak from behind. The cloth jerked hard against her throat and nearly dragged her backwards. Grizel twisted with a sound that was more fury than fear and tore herself half-free, leaving the clasp in his fist. He lunged again. There was no room now for hesitation, and no safety in pleading. She snatched the dagger from beneath her cloak and slashed blindly.

The blade caught his sleeve and opened skin beneath. He swore viciously and came at her harder.

Everything after that happened with a speed so bewildering that memory later rendered it in flashes: a hand grabbed for her wrist, then the sting of salt wind in her eyes, followed by a sailor shouting for arms, the ring of steel and finally, a body colliding with another body hard enough to rattle the deck.

MacAulay’s men were on them in an instant.

The ship, so orderly a breath before, erupted into a brutal storm of movement. Sailors seized belaying pins and knives. Someone drove a shoulder into one of Drummond’s men and sent him crashing into the rail. Another caught the second by the collar and struck him across the jaw with enough force to spray blood across the boards.

Grizel tried to pull away from the fray, but one of Drummond’s men, maddened and red-faced, lunged toward her again. She slashed with the dagger once more, but in the scramble her foot skidded on wet timber. Pain shot hot and sharp through her leg as she struck the deck awkwardly on one knee. The world flashed white for a moment. She bit back a cry.

When she looked up, half breathless and half blinded by the sting of it, she saw him.

He was fighting not ten feet away.

Impressive was too small a word for such a man. He seemed cut from the same dark violence as the sea itself. He was tall and broad through the shoulders, moving with a terrifying steadiness amid the chaos. His coat was open to reveal a plain dark waistcoat beneath, and his dark hair, wind-tossed and too long at the collar to be fashionable, only sharpened the severity of his face.

There was nothing ornamental about him, as he fought with the clean, efficient force of a man who had done so often and disliked wasting time upon it.

One of Drummond’s men risked a swing at him. He caught the blow, turned, and drove the man back with such brutal precision that Grizel heard the impact of body against rail even over the uproar of the deck. The fellow doubled over. The man seized him by the coat and flung him bodily toward the gangplank, where two sailors finished the matter by throwing him off the ship amid a shower of curses.

Grizel had no leisure to marvel at it. Another of Drummond’s men had broken free of the sailors and lurched toward her. His face was dark with fury, and his hand was closing hard about the hilt at his belt. She tried to scramble back, but her injured leg failed beneath her, and the deck tilted horribly under her palm.

He was almost on her. She drew her breath to scream, but he reached her first. His hand clamped around her upper arm, cruel fingers biting through the sleeves of her gown, and he hauled her upright with enough force to wrench a cry from her throat. Her bad leg buckled at once. For one sickening instant, she was hanging in his grip, helpless.

“Got ye,” he snarled.

That’s when the man, the one who had captured her attention, moved like a lightning bolt. He crossed the space between them with startling speed, catching the attacker’s wrist before the blade could clear its sheath. Then, he twisted. The man gave a strangled cry and released Grizel at once. In the same motion, the stranger drove his shoulder into him and sent him staggering backward into two MacAulay sailors, who seized him at once. The blade clattered across the planks and came to rest near Grizel’s skirt.

For one absurd instant, even through pain and terror, Grizel could only stare up at the man who had saved her. He didn’t ask whether she was harmed. He didn’t even try to soothe her, nor waste a breath in gallantry. He merely glanced down at her, as if taking measure of whether she would live long enough to become another difficulty.

Then rough hands closed about her arms.

“We’ve another!” cried one of the sailors. “Off with her too!”

“Nae!” She twisted, but her injured leg buckled as soon as she tried to stand. Pain went through her sharply enough to turn her voice thin. “Let me go!”

The sailor tightened his grip. “Ye came aboard with them.”

“I did nae!”

“A likely tale.”

“Please… I must speak tae yer laird.”

That earned her a bark of laughter from someone nearby. “Must ye indeed?”

She lifted her chin despite the breathlessness clawing at her lungs. Her hair had come half-loose, and she could feel it whipping across her cheek in the wind. Her palms stung, her knee throbbed, and the deck seemed to shake with the aftermath of violence. But there are moments when a lady could save herself only by becoming more outrageous than anyone expected.

Her gaze moved, against her will, back to the man who had saved her. He was watching her now with such unnerving attention that heat climbed into her face despite the fear still rattling through her bones. He stood among the wreckage of the fight as though a storm had shaped him: hard, dark and impossible to look away from.

And though Grizel knew she ought to fear such a man, her foolish heart could only consider the fierce manner in which he had dispatched her attacker. She banished the thought and brought herself back to the present moment.

“Aye,” she urged. “At once.”

“And why,” asked the man holding her, “should our laird receive a creature who boards his ship with armed men at her heels?”

Grizel drew a breath. Dark, fathomless eyes narrowed, waiting for her answer, as if they already knew she was about to cause even more trouble.

“Because,” she told him clearly, “I am going tae marry him.”

The words fell into the sudden hush like a cannon shot. For a heartbeat, the ship seemed to pause with them. Several sailors stared outright. One made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh if he had dared let it free. Another crossed his arms and looked delighted by the prospect of scandal. Even the man holding her loosened his grip slightly in surprise.

And that’s when he stepped toward her.

Up close, he was more formidable still. His face was all hard lines and controlled strength. His mouth was severe, his jaw shadowed by the day, and his eyes dark enough to seem nearly black beneath lowered brows. There was sea-salt on his coat and a faint smear of blood across one knuckle that did not appear to be his own. He had the look of a man long accustomed to command and less accustomed to being amused.

Yet, amused he was… only a little, but still dangerously.

“Marry him, ye say?” he asked.

Please enable JavaScript in your browser to complete this form.

How likely are you to recommend this preview to a friend?

Not at all Likely Extremely Likely
0	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10

Submit

Best selling books of Lyla

★★★★★ 102 ratings

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.

Read the book

★★★★★ 194 ratings

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…

Read the book

Chapter One

The Great Hall smelled of spring flowers and ambition.

Lilias Grant stood at the far end of the stone chamber, her hands steady despite the flutter beneath her ribs. Every candle had been lit, every banner smoothed, every guest positioned precisely where protocol demanded. She would not allow nerves to undo her now.

Her father stood beside her, his weathered face carefully neutral. Beyond him, the assembled witnesses filled the hall with their rustling silks and hushed conversations. Highland lairds and their wives, Fraser kinsmen, merchants who’d traveled inland from the coast in their salt-stained plaids. All watching. All waiting.

At the front of the hall, beside the narrow-faced priest, stood Ewan Fraser.

Lilias’s gaze found him as it had a dozen times since her arrival at Castle Fraser. Tall and broad through the chest, his armor catching the candlelight, with dark blond hair worn close and a face carved into restraint. Her betrothed. The laird. The reason she was here. A man who armored himself for his own wedding was a man who took duty seriously. She told herself that was reassuring. That was what this was, after all. Duty.

His blue eyes didn’t track her approach. He looked straight ahead, stern and disapproving, as though the ceremony were an obligation to be endured rather than a moment to be marked.

He was exactly what her father’s reports had promised: controlled, serious, safe.

Her gaze drifted, almost against her will, to the man standing to the side of the hall.

Ailean Fraser. The younger brother. Tall and broad across the shoulders, whose blond hair that fell loose past his collar in a way that seemed almost careless. He wore dark leather and clan colors rather than formal regalia, and the combination made him look more like a man prepared for a hunt than a wedding. His blue eyes, on the other hand, tracked her approach with an intensity that made her pulse quicken despite herself.

He was handsome in a way that felt dangerous. Not the polished beauty of courtiers, but something rawer. Something that made her think of cold sea winds and the kind of recklessness that got men killed.

She pushed the thought aside and began walking. He wasn’t the man she was here to marry. Whatever reckless pull she felt looking at him was irrelevant. Ewan Fraser stood at the altar, and Ewan was the laird, the alliance, the reason she had traveled all this way. She had no business noticing anything else.

The priest’s voice rose in formal greeting. This marriage was strategy, not sentiment. Her father had negotiated well to secure this much.

She was three steps from the altar when Ewan faltered.

It was small at first. A stillness that didn’t belong. His shoulders locked, his chin dropped a fraction, and for one strange moment Lilias thought he had simply lost his place in the ceremony. Then his hand went to his chest.

The priest stopped mid-word.

His face twisted. Something moved behind his eyes, confusion first, then pain, then something worse than either. Then he collapsed.

The sound was enormous in the silence. Metal on stone, then nothing.

Then everything at once

The hall erupted.

Guests surged forward while servants scattered backward. Someone screamed. The priest stumbled away from the falling body, and Ewan’s guards rushed to their laird’s side, shouting for the healer. Ailean dropped to his knees beside his brother, hands hovering uselessly over Ewan’s convulsing form.

Lilias stumbled back a step, then another. Her mind refused to make sense of what she was seeing. She had planned every detail of this day. She had checked the arrangements three times over. There was no room in her careful preparation for this.

“Poison,” someone hissed. The word spread like flame through dry tinder. “The laird’s been poisoned.”

Then the alarm bells began to ring.

The sound cut through the panic, sharp and insistent. Somewhere in the castle, guards were shouting. Running footsteps echoed through the corridors beyond the hall.

“Intruder,” a guard bellowed from the doorway. “Inside the walls.”

Guests scattered. Women clutched their skirts and fled toward the kitchens. Men reached for weapons they hadn’t worn to the wedding. The healer arrived, but Lilias saw the truth in the woman’s face the moment she touched Ewan’s throat.

The laird was dead.

The thought landed in her chest like a stone dropping into still water. Dead. Her betrothed was dead on the floor of his own Great Hall, and suddenly the people pressing around her felt less like witnesses and more like a threat. Anyone here could have done this. Anyone here could do worse. She had to move, needed to find her father, needed to get out of the open before—

The hall collapsed into itself.

Someone screamed close to her ear. A body slammed into her shoulder and spun her sideways, and she caught herself on the edge of a table before the crowd swallowed the space where she’d been standing. Guards were drawing steel, the rasp of blades filling the air above the noise, and someone shouted an order that was immediately lost beneath a woman’s pitched wail and the crash of an overturned bench. Lilias tried to move toward the wall and found herself pushed back, the press of bodies disorienting, all elbows and shoulders and no sense of direction. Her veil tore. She couldn’t see anything beyond the backs and arms of people who had stopped being guests in the madness.

A guard shoved past her without looking, blade drawn, and she stumbled hard into the someone behind her, who caught her arm and then let go and was gone before she could turn. The floor felt unstable beneath her feet. She kept her hands out, kept moving, kept her breathing slow despite the tightening in her chest.

Then a hand closed around her arm. Firm, certain, and unmistakable in its purpose.

Ailean. His expression was carved from ice, his eyes already moving past her, scanning the room.

“Come with me,” he said. His voice was low, controlled, but she heard the steel beneath it. “Now.”

“Me faither—”

“Will be safer without ye as a target. Move.”

He pulled her toward a side passage, away from the panicking crowd. His hand was firm on her arm, guiding rather than dragging, but there was no room for argument in his grip. They reached a narrow stairwell that led toward the upper chambers, stone walls close on either side.

Lilias’s heart hammered against her ribs. “What’s happening?”

“I dinnae ken yet.” Ailean’s jaw was tight. “But ye’re the Crown’s bride, which makes ye valuable. If someone’s after the clan—”

A figure burst from the shadows ahead of them.

The man was young, wild-eyed, dressed in servant’s clothing that didn’t quite fit. He had a blade in his hand and desperation written across his face. When he saw them, he lunged for Lilias.

She barely had time to gasp before the intruder’s arm locked around her throat, the blade’s edge cold against her skin.

“Back,” the man snarled at Ailean. “Back or I’ll open her throat.”

Ailean froze mid-step. His hands rose slowly, but his gaze never left the intruder’s face. “Ye dinnae want tae dae that, lad.”

“I want tae get out of here alive.” The arm around Lilias’s throat tightened. She could smell his sweat, feel his pulse racing through the grip. “Let me pass or the lass dies.”

“Kill her and ye lose yer only leverage.” Ailean’s voice was eerily calm. “Then it’s just ye and me in this stairwell, and I promise ye that ends poorly fer ye.”

The blade pressed harder. Lilias forced herself to breathe shallowly, her hands gripping the intruder’s forearm. Her mind raced. The man was panicking. Panicking men made mistakes.

“I’ll dae it,” the intruder insisted. “I swear I’ll—”

Ailean moved.

One moment he was still, hands raised in placation. The next he’d closed the distance, one hand catching the intruder’s wrist and wrenching the blade away from Lilias’s throat while his other arm shoved her backward. She stumbled against the wall as Ailean twisted the man’s arm with brutal efficiency.

The intruder screamed. The blade clattered to the floor.

Then the guards were there, thundering up the stairs with swords drawn. They seized the struggling man and hauled him away from Ailean, who stepped back with controlled precision. Blood dripped from a shallow cut on the intruder’s forearm.

“Take him tae the cells,” Ailean ordered. A guard stepped forward, breathless from the stairs.

“Me laird, the council elders are asking tae convene. They say it cannae wait.”

Ailean’s jaw tightened. “Tell them one hour. I want every corner of this castle searched first and every guest accounted fer.” He paused. “Every person. Without exception.”

The guards dragged the intruder away. His protests echoed down the stairwell until distance swallowed them.

Silence fell.

Ailean turned to Lilias, his gaze sweeping over her with clinical assessment. “Are ye hurt?”

“Nay” Her voice came out steadier than she’d expected. “I’m fine.”

“Ye’re trembling.”

“I’m angry and scared.” She straightened, smoothing her skirts with hands that wanted to shake. “Me betrothed just died someone tried tae use me as a shield. I’m entitled tae tremble if I want tae.”

“Fair enough.”

She met his eyes fully for the first time since the chaos had begun. They were the color of deep water, and despite everything, she felt that same dangerous pull she’d experienced watching him at the altar. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, his hair disheveled from the struggle, and there was a controlled violence in the way he held himself that should have frightened her.

It didn’t.

“Yer braither,” she said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

His face shuttered. “So am I.”

Chapter Two

The Great Hall had emptied by the time Ailean returned. Servants were already clearing away the wedding feast that would never be eaten, moving with grim efficiency. Ewan’s body had been carried to the chapel to await preparation for burial.

Ailean stood in the center of the hall and felt the weight of leadership settle over his shoulders like armor he’d never wanted to wear.

The Council would convene within the hour. There would be questions about succession, about the intruder, about whether the marriage decree still bound them now that Ewan was dead. Politics would not pause for grief.

He thought of Lilias standing in that stairwell, blade at her throat, and the cold fury that had seized him. She was meant to be a political necessity, nothing more. Yet when that man had threatened her, Ailean’s only thought had been getting her free.

A woman who could make him feel anything beyond duty was dangerous, especially now. He had just become laird of Clan Fraser whether he wanted the title or not, and lairds did not have the luxury of attachment. His mother had died bringing him into the world. He never forgot that cost.

And now the Crown expected him to bind some Highland lass to that same fate.

He flexed his hands, willing the tension from his shoulders. The council chamber awaited. So did Lilias and whatever the clan elders decided her future should be.

And his future did as well, whether he was prepared for it or not.

The doors to the hall opened. Torcall Fraser entered, his expression carefully neutral. Ewan’s cousin had arrived at the castle only two days prior, citing family obligation. Now he approached with the measured steps of a man assessing new terrain.

“A terrible day,” Torcall said quietly. “The clan grieves.”

“Aye.” Ailean studied his cousin’s face. The grief in Torcall’s voice was perfectly pitched. Not too much, not too little. The kind of grief a man performed. Ailean knew well that he had been waiting for exactly this outcome. “And the clan endures.”

“Of course.” Torcall’s gaze swept the empty hall. It lingered on the laird’s chair at the head of the table a fraction too long. “The Council is gathering. They’ll want decisions made quickly.”

“Then we shouldnae keep them waiting.”

Each step toward the council chamber felt like walking toward an anvil he couldn’t dodge. Somewhere in this castle, Lilias was preparing to learn what came next. He wondered if she’d fight the Council’s inevitable decision or accept it with the same steady composure she’d shown in the stairwell.

He suspected she would accept it. He suspected that steadiness was not something she put on for difficult moments but something she was made of. That thought sat uneasily in his chest, closer to admiration than he had any right to feel.

Either way, soon everything would change.

***

The council chamber felt small.

Lilias sat in a high-backed chair against the stone wall, her father beside her, while the Fraser elders arranged themselves around the long table. Firelight threw shadows across weathered faces and glinted off the silver brooches that marked clan rank. The air smelled of peat smoke and tension.

Less than two hours had passed since Laird Ewan Fraser had collapsed at the altar. His body now lay in the chapel, and the intruder sat chained in the cells below, refusing to speak. The wedding guests had been questioned and dismissed, leaving only those whose voices would shape what came next.

Ailean Fraser sat at the head of the table in his brother’s chair.

He looked wrong there. Too young, too unprepared, despite the breadth of his shoulders and the careful control in his expression. His blond hair was tied back now, revealing the sharp line of his jaw and the exhaustion already settling into the skin and the deep sorrow in his eyes. He wore his brother’s formal plaid over his leathers, and the combination made him look like a man caught between two identities.

Lilias couldn’t stop watching him. She had come here to marry Ewan. She had prepared herself for Ewan, steeled for Ewan’s cold eyes and rigid authority. She had not prepared for this man, for the way he carried grief like a wound he refused to show, for the way his gaze found hers across the chamber as though she was the only fixed point in a room that was spinning. She told herself it was political necessity, but that didn’t explain the heat that coiled low in her belly when his gaze flickered to hers across the chamber.

“The succession is clear,” said Gordon, the eldest of the council. His voice carried the weight of five decades serving Clan Fraser. “With Laird Ewan fallen, leadership passes tae his braither. Ailean Fraser is laird by blood and law.”

Murmurs of agreement circled the table. Ailean said nothing, his face unreadable.

“However,” Gordon continued, “the Crown’s decree remains in force. The Fraser laird must be lawfully married within the year, or face royal intervention. With recent events…” He gestured vaguely toward where Ewan’s body lay. “We appear vulnerable. Weak. Delaying the alliance could invite scrutiny we cannae afford.”

“The marriage agreement was made in good faith,” Lilias’s father said. His voice was measured but firm. “Between our families. Me daughter came here tae marry Laird Fraser, and that remains true. That he’s now laird instead of his older maintains the alliance, it daesnae dissolve it.”

Lilias felt every gaze in the chamber turn toward her. She kept her spine straight and her hands folded in her lap, refusing to show the anxiety churning through her chest.

Torcall Fraser spoke from his position halfway down the table. His voice was smooth, carefully measured, the voice of a man who had been rehearsing this moment. “With respect, the situation has changed considerably. Ailean has never led. Never commanded. The clan requires steady hands right now, experienced hands, not a second son thrust into a chair he was never groomed fer.” He paused, letting the silence do its work. “There are those at this table with stronger claim tae Fraser leadership. Those who have served this clan fer years without recognition. Perhaps we should consider all its options before rushing intae decisions that cannae be undone.”

The air in the chamber shifted. Several of the elders exchanged glances.

Ailean’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes went very still.

“How has it changed?” Her father’s tone sharpened. “Me daughter is the same woman who entered this castle three days ago. The Crown’s decree is the same. Only the name of the laird has changed, and that makes the marriage more necessary, nae less.”

“More necessary,” Torcall agreed smoothly, “fer a laird who can actually hold this clan taegether. Ailean is untested. Grief-struck. And ye’d have him marry a Grant girl he’s known fer hours on the same day his braither’s dead body is still warm? What message daes that send? That the Frasers are desperate. That anyone with enough patience need only wait us out.”

“Nay one’s forcing anyone,” Ailean interrupted. His voice cut through the debate with quiet authority. “The choice is mine tae make, aye?”

Silence fell. Every eye turned to the new laird.

He didn’t look at Torcall. He looked at Lilias.

For a long moment they simply looked at each other across the chamber, and she felt the weight of everything unsaid between them. He’d saved her life in that stairwell. She’d seen the controlled violence in him, the barely leashed intensity that made her pulse quicken despite her better judgment. She had come here expecting a cold political arrangement with a man she would learn to endure. She had not expected this, whatever this was, this pull toward a man she had no right to want.

“The clan’s position comes first,” Ailean said finally. “We’re vulnerable now that me braither is dead. The Crown will be watching tae see how we respond. If we delay the marriage, we show weakness. If we proceed…” He paused. “We show stability. Continuity.”

“Continuity,” Torcall repeated, his tone edged now, the smoothness wearing thin. “Or desperation dressed up as strength. Ye’ve been laird fer two hours, Ailean. Ye dinnae even ken if the clan will follow ye.”

“They’ll follow me,” Ailean said quietly. “Because I willnae give them reason nae tae.”

“And the lass?” Gordon turned to Lilias. “Ye came here tae marry Laird Ewan and secure the alliance. He is gone. The man before ye is untested, newly made, and stepping into chaos. Are ye prepared fer what marrying him now actually means?”

Every face turned toward her again. Lilias felt her father’s tension like a physical presence beside her, felt the weight of expectation pressing down from all sides. This was the moment that would define her future, and she had perhaps thirty seconds to decide it.

She thought of the wedding that had ended in death. Of the blade at her throat and Ailean’s cold fury as he’d freed her. Of the way he had put himself between her and danger without hesitation, as though it had not even been a choice. Of the way his eyes tracked her across rooms as though she unsettled him in ways he didn’t know how to handle.

Of the fact that her wedding day had included a death, an assassination attempt, and a blade to her throat, and somehow marriage was still the expected outcome.

She should have been terrified. She was terrified. But beneath the fear was something else, something she didn’t have a name for yet, something that had started in a stairwell when a man she barely knew had looked at her captor with cold, absolute certainty and moved.

“I came here tae fulfill an agreement,” she said clearly. “Between me family and Clan Fraser. That agreement was made fer political reasons, nae romantic ones. If the clan needs this marriage tae proceed, then I’ll honor it.” She met Ailean’s gaze directly. “I came here tae marry the Fraser laird. He is the Fraser laird.”

She saw it register on his face, that brief unguarded moment before the laird’s mask settled back into place.

“Practical,” Torcall observed. The word landed like a dismissal. “A minor landholder’s daughter, willing tae take whatever’s offered. How fortunate fer us all.”

The insult was quiet enough to deny. Lilias felt it land anyway.

“It’s more than many marriages start with,” she replied, keeping her voice even despite the heat rising in her chest. “And I suspect Laird Ailean is equally practical.”

“Practical,” Ailean repeated. The corner of his mouth twitched. His eyes held hers for a moment longer than necessary. “Aye, that’s one word fer it.”

“Then we’re agreed?” Gordon looked between them. “The marriage proceeds as planned?”

“As planned?” Lilias’s father frowned. “Surely we should wait until—”

“Until what?” Gordon interrupted. “Until word spreads that our laird died and we abandoned the alliance? Until the Crown questions our stability? Nay. The ceremony was meant tae happen today. We finish what we started, show the clan we’re still standing. We turn tragedy intae transition.”

“Taeday,” Lilias echoed. The word sat strangely in her mouth. “Ye want us tae continue with the wedding today.”

“Unless ye object?” Ailean asked. His gaze was steady on hers, and she couldn’t read what lay behind it. “After what ye’ve been through, I’d understand if ye needed time.”

It was the first time anyone had thought about her needs. Not what the clan needed, not what the alliance required. What she needed. The unexpected gentleness of it caught her somewhere behind her ribs.

“Time willnae change the necessity.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “If we’re daeing this, we might as well finish it.”

***

The sun had set by the time they reconvened in the Great Hall.

Ailean stood before the priest for the second time that day and tried not to think about the fact that his brother’s dead body lay fifty feet away in the chapel.

The crowd was smaller, limited to clan elders and essential witnesses. The candles had been relit but the flower arrangements removed, leaving the space feeling stark. Functional. Like a transaction rather than a ceremony. Which, he reminded himself, was exactly what this was.

Lilias entered from the side door, still wearing the dress she’d worn that morning. Her dark hair had been repinned, and someone had given her a fresh plaid in Fraser colors to drape over her shoulders. The Fraser colors looked right on her, and he wished that observation hadn’t occurred to him.

She walked toward him with her spine straight and her chin lifted, looking far more composed than he felt. He watched her cross the hall and thought about the stairwell, about the blade at her throat and the way she had gripped the intruder’s forearm with both hands and forced herself to breathe. She hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t collapsed. She had assessed the situation with the same quiet steadiness she brought to the council meeting.

She was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with softness or delicacy, the kind of beauty that came with steel and sharp edges. She looked like the sort of woman who could survive Highland winters and navigate clan politics without breaking.

That was the most dangerous thing about her.

Attachment was dangerous. He knew that. After what happened to his mother, he had spent years making sure no woman would ever bear that risk for him.

And now here she was, walking toward him in Fraser colors, and he couldn’t stop watching her.

She reached his side and turned to face the priest. For a moment they stood in silence, two people bound by necessity rather than choice.

“Ready?” he asked quietly.

“Are ye?” She glanced at him sidelong, something sharp flashing in her expression that might have been challenge or dark humor.

“Nae remotely.”

“Good. That makes two of us.”

He almost smiled. He hadn’t expected that either.

The priest cleared his throat and began the ceremony. The words were the same ones Ailean had heard that morning, but they felt heavier now, more real, weighted with everything the day had cost. When it came time for vows, Ailean spoke them clearly, watching Lilias’s face for any sign of hesitation.

She showed none.

Her voice was steady as she repeated the words that bound her to him, to this clan, to a future that was chosen for them. He found himself listening to every word she spoke, searching for reluctance, for resentment, for the performance of a woman doing what she must. He didn’t find it. What he found unsettled him more.

When the priest pronounced them married, Ailean felt the weight of it settle over him like chains.

He was laird of Clan Fraser. He had a wife. His brother was dead.

Everything had changed in the span of a single day.

“Ye may kiss the bride,” the priest said.

Ailean turned to Lilias. She looked up at him with those sharp eyes, her expression carefully neutral. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands gripped her skirts. She was braver than he deserved, this woman who had walked into a stranger’s castle and been handed chaos and grief and a blade at her throat and had simply squared her shoulders and kept going.

“We dinnae have tae,” he said quietly. “Fer appearances, aye, but—”

She rose onto her toes and pressed her lips to his.

The kiss was brief. Chaste. Witnessed by a room full of clan elders who expected nothing more. But Ailean felt it everywhere, felt the warmth of her mouth and the way she steadied herself with one hand against his chest, felt the slight catch of her breath before she pulled back. He stood very still, afraid that if he moved he would do something profoundly unwise.

“There,” she said. Her voice was composed. Her cheeks were not. “Now it’s official.”

He couldn’t quite manage a response.

The witnesses applauded politely as Gordon approached with congratulations, while Torcall watched from the back of the hall with the expression of a man recalculating. Lilias’s father embraced his daughter, whispering something Ailean couldn’t hear.

And through it all, Ailean kept thinking about that kiss, about the way Lilias had taken control of a moment he’d been prepared to let slip past, about the fact that she was his wife now, bound to him by law and witnesses.

About the fact he was in a great deal of trouble.

Lilias turned back to him as the witnesses began to disperse. “So,” she said. “What happens now, husband?”

The word sent an unexpected jolt through him. “Now we figure out how tae survive this taegether, wife.”

She studied his face for a long moment. Then, impossibly, she smiled. “Well. At least it willnae be boring.”

He watched her turn away to speak with her father and thought that boring was the very last word he would ever use for her.

Please enable JavaScript in your browser to complete this form.

How likely are you to recommend this preview to a friend?

Not at all Likely Extremely Likely
0	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10

Submit

Best selling books of Lyla

★★★★★ 102 ratings

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.

Read the book

★★★★★ 194 ratings

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…

Read the book

Chapter One

1637, Balmoral Castle

“I ken this is silly… yet I would give everything tae be his.”

The thought burned through Lady Ishbel Hume as her eyes found him across the hall. The music swelled, violins and pipes weaving through the vaulted chamber, but she barely heard them. Shadows clung to the edges of the masquerade, and there she sat, half-hidden, her gaze fixed on one man alone.

Tall, commanding, black hair gleaming under torchlight and eyes the piercing blue of a Highland loch, Laird Seamus Scott seemed carved from stone. Distant, untouchable, and far beyond her reach.

Ishbel’s lips parted in a silent sigh, her fingers brushing lightly against the curve of her neck as if to soothe the ache she dared not name. She lifted her goblet, the wine warm against her tongue, but it did nothing to quiet the truth that pressed against her chest: she could never have him.

Laird Seamus Scott.

He had never noticed her. Why would he? Her clan, Clan Hume, belonged to the land, rooted in soil and harvest, bound to hills that never shifted. His was born of the sea, of black-hulled ships and tides that answered to no laird.

They were separate worlds, with nothing to offer one another in trade or treaty. A pirate lord had no reason to ally with a land-bound family. And thus a daughter of that family had no right to dream of him.

She knew nothing could ever come of her longing, yet her heart betrayed her, beating faster each time her eyes found him.

“Still starin’, sister?” The voice of Katherine, the oldest of her three younger sisters, interrupted her reverie, teasing but warm. Ishbel flinched, her hand tightening around the stem of her goblet before she turned to meet her sister’s mischievous smile.

“It isnae what ye think,” Ishbel whispered, though heat rose to her cheeks.

“Oh, it is exactly what I think,” Katherine laughed, nudging her shoulder playfully. “Three years o’ sighs and stolen glances, and still ye pretend it is naethin’.”

Ishbel shook her head, though her fingers twisted nervously in her lap. “Admiration, naethin’ more.”

Katherine leaned closer, her tone softening. “Ye ken ye cannae lie tae me. I see the way yer breath catches when he enters a room.” She brushed a stray curl from Ishbel’s temple, her eyes gleaming with affection.

Ishbel arched a brow, lips curving into a wry smile. “And what if it daes? Breathin’ is hardly a crime.”

Katherine laughed, nudging her shoulder. “But it is a crime that ye think I dinnae notice what’s behind those sighs.”

“Hopeless, perhaps,” Ishbel replied dryly, lifting her goblet with deliberate grace.

“Or maybe somethin’ more.”

“Somethin’ like what?”

“Smitten, maybe?” Katherine’s grin widened, teasing yet affectionate.

“Ye’re bein’ dramatic.”

Katherine tilted her head, eyes narrowing with playful challenge. “Then prove it. Dance with someone else.”

Ishbel’s smile sharpened. “And why, pray, should I dae that? Tae satisfy yer amusement?”

“Because,” Katherine said, leaning even closer, her voice conspiratorial, “I want tae see if ye can look at another man without yer heart betrayin’ ye.”

Ishbel opened her mouth to retort, but Katherine’s gaze flicked past her shoulder. She straightened, lips curving into a sly grin.

“There ye go. Yer chance.”

Ishbel straightened, determined to contradict her sister if only for the pleasure of proving her wrong. The words hovered on her lips, until a shadow fell across them both.

Her breath caught.

Oh, nay… not him. Anyone but him.

She turned, and a knot tightened in her stomach. The man before her was tall and slender, his frame sharp and precise, his presence carrying a cold, cutting weight rather than brute force. Pale hair framed a face of angular, calculating features, and his light eyes, cool and assessing, seemed to measure her as though she were something to be claimed.

Fearchar Kerr.

Son of Laird Kerr, sworn enemy of her clan. His smile was a blade, sharp and cruel, cutting through the fragile safety of the masquerade. He bowed with exaggerated courtesy, the gesture mocking rather than respectful.

“Lady Hume,” he said, his voice smooth, dangerous. “May I have this dance?”

Every instinct screamed no. Clan Kerr had long sought to destroy her family, their raids leaving scars on Hume lands. Yet such an obvious refusal would only create greater tension between the clans. Besides, there was Katherine’s wager. If she refused the dance, it would prove her sister right, even indirectly, and Ishbel did not want that.

It didn’t take long for her to realize that she could not refuse, no matter how much she wanted to.

Her lips parted. “Aye,” she said, though the word tasted bitter.

Fearchar’s hand closed around hers, firm, possessive. He led her to the floor, the crowd parting as the pipes struck a lively tune. Ishbel’s body moved, but her mind remained elsewhere—on Seamus, standing across the hall, his profile carved in stone.

Fearchar leaned close, his breath hot against her ear, the weight of his hand tightening around her wrist. “It is a shame,” he murmured, voice low and mocking. “A woman with such beauty… wasted. Ye sit in yer quiet hills prayin’ stronger men notice ye. But I have noticed ye, Ishbel. And I could lift ye from that irrelevance.”

Ishbel stiffened, her chin lifting despite the pain of his grip. “I need nay freedom from me clan. And certainly nae from ye.”

His smile curved, sharp as a blade. “Ye mistake me, lass. I am nae asking. I am telling ye.” His fingers pressed harder, sliding to her waist, the pressure bruising, meant to remind her of his strength.

There was a veiled threat in his words, one that sharpened with every passing second. Ishbel’s pulse quickened, fear curling cold in her chest. She had to get away from that man—immediately.

“This has been a mistake,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. “This dance is over.”

Fearchar’s grip tightened, his smile twisting. “Ye dinnae make the rules here, lass.”

Ishbel pushed against him, chin lifted in defiance. “On the contrary. I decide when I’ve had enough.”

She wrenched back, breaking the rhythm of the dance, skirts flaring as she tore herself free. But before she could step away, his hand shot out, catching her wrist with bruising force.

His eyes darkened, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “I remind ye there are ways tae take what I want. And I will—one way or another. Fer yer own good, dinnae resist.”

Her breath caught, but she held his gaze, refusing to flinch. “Ye speak of things that will never be.”

Fearchar’s chuckle was dark, curling through the chamber like smoke. “Never? I never take “never” fer an answer.”

Her heart pounded. She pulled back, slipping from his grasp. “Enough.”

Ishbel’s pulse raced, her skin prickling with unease. The chamber seemed to close in around her, shadows pressing against her as if conspiring with Fearchar’s threat. She scanned the hall, desperate for a glimpse of Katherine’s familiar smile or her parents’ presence, but there was no one. The crowd blurred, masks and laughter dissolving into a haze that offered no refuge.

Her instincts screamed. She had to move.

Gathering her skirts, she stepped quickly, weaving through the dancers with a determination that belied the tremor in her hands. Each footfall echoed her urgency, her breath shallow, her chest tight.

She pushed past a pair of revelers, their laughter sharp against her ears, and slipped into a corridor dimly lit by flickering torches. The air was cooler here, heavy with stone and silence. Her steps faltered, but she pressed on, the sound of her slippers quick against the flagstones.

At last, she found the door she was looking for half-hidden in shadow. With trembling fingers, she lifted the latch and slipped inside.

The room was quiet, far removed from the revelry beyond. The muffled strains of music faded to nothing, replaced by the steady rhythm of her own breathing. Ishbel pressed her back against the door, closing her eyes, willing her pulse to slow. Her hands shook as she clutched the folds of her gown, the memory of Fearchar’s grip lingering like a bruise.

Safe—fer now.

But the silence carried its own weight, and Ishbel knew the danger was not gone. The latch clicked. The door swung shut, and Fearchar Kerr stepped inside, closing it firmly behind him. The sound echoed like a verdict.

Ishbel’s breath caught. She retreated instinctively until her back struck the edge of a table. Just what she was reaching for. Fingers fumbling, she reached behind her, desperate for something—anything—to defend herself. Cold metal met her touch. A butter knife. She curled her hand around it, knuckles white, holding it as if it were a sword.

Fearchar’s smile was cruel, his eyes gleaming with intent. “Ye misunderstand, lass. I have a purpose, and ye will serve it. Whether ye wish it or nae.”

Ishbel lifted the knife, her voice sharp despite the tremor in her chest. “Come closer, and ye will regret it. I will nae be yer pawn.”

He chuckled, stepping nearer, the weight of his presence filling the room. His hand shot out, seizing hers with bruising force, twisting until the knife wavered. Ishbel gasped at the strength in his grip, but she refused to lower her gaze.

“Ye think ye have a choice,” he murmured, his tone low and dangerous. “But if I force ye, there will be nay escape. Nay path but one—ye will marry me, and yer clan will bend.”

The words struck like iron, heavy and final. Ishbel’s pulse thundered, fear and defiance warring within her. She tightened her grip on the knife, her voice steady, unyielding. “I’d rather be dead than be yer wife.”

“That can be fixed, but fer now… ye serve me purpose better alive. And with me,” announced Fearchar. One of his hands rose before brushing Ishbel’s cheek in a way that ended up chilling her blood.

Ishbel’s scream burst from her throat, raw and desperate, but she knew the music drowned it out, violins and flutes rising in cruel harmony. No one was coming to her aid, and the force with which Fearchar loomed over her made her know with terrifying certainty that his words were not mere threats, but truths about to become reality.

Her chest tightened, panic clawing at her ribs. This is the end, her mind whispered, cold and merciless. Fearchar’s shadow loomed closer, his grip unyielding, his intent clear, as one of his hands closed around her waist. The other clasped her wrist so tightly that she let out a cry of pain.

“Stop! Ye’re hurting me, stop!” Ishbel cried, but that statement seemed to satisfy Fearchar.

“Good, keep fighting. That fierceness adds flavor tae yer otherwise bland expression…”

She screamed for help again, but she knew it was useless. In that instant, she knew the night would never be the same.

Chapter Two

The scream tore from her throat, raw and desperate, but the music swallowed it whole. Violins and pipes played on, cruel and indifferent. Fearchar’s grip tightened on her wrist, grinding bone against bone, and his shadow swallowed the last of the candlelight.

No one is coming, no one heard. No one—

A sound.

Not music. Not the wind. The unmistakable thud of a door crashing against stone.

Fearchar’s head snapped up, his grip faltering. Ishbel twisted toward the sound, her heart a wild, frantic drum against her ribs.

A figure filled the doorway.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair loose from its tie, wild as the sea in a storm. His chest heaved as if he’d run through the very walls to reach her, and his eyes, grey and fierce as the North Sea in winter, were fixed on her.

On the tear tracks down her cheeks. On the bruise already blooming at her wrist. On the terror she could not hide.

Seamus.

The name was a prayer.

He moved. Not with the measured, careful steps of the ballroom. This was a predator’s stride, swift and absolute. His hand shot out and seized Fearchar’s arm, wrenching him away from her with a force that sent the smaller man stumbling. Seamus stepped between them, his broad back a wall of dark wool and coiled strength, and Ishbel was suddenly, blessedly hidden.

She could not see Fearchar’s face. She could only see Seamus’s shoulders, rigid as iron, and hear the low, deadly rumble of his voice.

“Ye will nae touch her again.”

It was a pronouncement.

Fearchar recovered quickly, his sneer twisting his handsome features into something ugly. “Ye’ve nay place here, Scott. This is between me and the lady.”

“The lady,” Seamus said, each word a shard of ice, “has made clear she wants nae part of ye.”

Ishbel watched his back, the play of muscle beneath his coat, the way his stance widened, anchoring himself between her and danger. No one had ever stood up for her like that.

Her father would have negotiated. Someone else may have called for guards. But Seamus Scott had simply arrived, and the storm had arrived with him.

He came fer me.

The thought bloomed in her chest, fragile and fierce. He had been across the hall, surrounded by lairds and admirals. He could not possibly have heard her scream over the music. And yet, there he stood, breathing hard, his knuckles white at his sides, ready to tear the world apart for her.

Why?

Fearchar lunged. His hand flew to his belt, and steel glinted in the dim light. Ishbel’s cry of warning died in her throat.

Seamus was faster.

His grip shot out, catching Fearchar’s wrist mid-strike. He twisted—once, sharply—and the dagger clattered to the floor with a sound like a death knell. Fearchar gasped, his arrogance finally cracking, and Seamus pushed. The smaller man stumbled backward, his heel catching on the edge of a rug, and crashed to the ground in an undignified heap.

Seamus did not advance. He did not gloat. He simply stood over his fallen adversary, his breathing steady now, his eyes cold as the depths of the sea.

“Ye will leave,” he said, his voice quiet, absolute. “And if ye speak of this tae any soul, I will ensure the whole of Scotland knows what manner of man crawls in the dark and calls himself a laird.”

Fearchar’s jaw clenched. His pride warred with the very real weight of Seamus’s authority pressing down on him. Slowly, he rose, dusting off his sleeves with trembling hands. His gaze flicked to Ishbel, with a promise of future reckoning.

“This isnae over,” he hissed.

Then he was gone, his footsteps sharp and furious against the stone, swallowed at last by the distant music of the oblivious hall.

The door clicked shut. Silence rushed in to fill the void.

Ishbel could not move. Could not breathe. Her body was still screaming, still braced for a blow that would never come. Her gaze was fixed on the broad, solid shape of the man standing between her and the door, his chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate control.

He turned.

His face, moments ago carved from ice and iron, softened as his eyes found hers. The storm receded, replaced by something quieter, something that looked almost like concern. Like relief.

“Are ye hurt?”

She should answer. She should thank him. She should be a proper lady and compose herself.

Instead, she looked at his hands, the hands that had disarmed a man with lethal precision, and saw that his knuckles were split, smeared with Fearchar’s blood.

He had not drawn his own weapon. He had not needed to. He had defended her with nothing but his own strength and will.

He came fer me, she thought again, and this time, the words carried a warmth that had nothing to do with gratitude.

He came.

***

A soft, broken sound reached his ears.

He reacted just in time.

The lass swayed, her strength giving way all at once, as if the terror she had kept at bay had finally claimed its due. Seamus caught her by the arms before she could fall, steady hands gripping gently but firmly.

“Easy,” he murmured, lowering her with care.

He guided her down until she was seated against the edge of the table, then knelt before her, one knee touching the cold stone floor. Only when she was safe did he loosen his hold, though he stayed close, ready should she falter again.

She trembled, subtly, fiercely, as though her body had yet to accept that the danger had passed.

Up close, she was more striking than he had expected. Not merely beautiful, though she was that—brown curls framing a pale face, lashes still damp with unshed tears—but something else stirred in him, something sharper.

Her eyes met his. Green. Not soft. Not broken.

There was fear there, yes, but beneath it, resolve. Fire held in check. The look of someone who had been cornered and had chosen to bare her teeth rather than surrender.

She would have fought him alone, Seamus realized. Knife or nay knife. Claws or bare hands. She was nay trembling lamb.

A wolf.

The thought settled deep in his chest.

“Are ye hurt?” he asked quietly. His voice was low now, stripped of the steel he had used on Fearchar. “Did he—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “Did he harm ye?”

She drew in a careful breath before answering, as though steadying herself on the sound of his voice.

“Nay,” she said. Her tone was soft, but not weak, only shaken. “Nay… nae beyond fright.”

Her hands rested in her lap, fingers curled tightly into the fabric of her gown. Seamus noticed the faint redness at her wrist, where Fearchar’s grip had been.

His jaw clenched.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant more than the word could carry. “Ye should never have been put in such a position. Nae in any hall. Nae under any roof.”

Her lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across her face. Then she inclined her head, just a little.

“Thank ye,” she said. “Fer coming. Fer… nae turning away.” She hesitated, then added, almost shyly, “Laird Scott.”

Hearing his name on her lips startled him more than he expected. He straightened a fraction, eyes searching hers.

“Seamus is fine” he said. “And ye are?”

“Lady Ishbel Hume.” The name struck him with quiet force. The eldest of their host that night. A daughter of the land, born to soil and stone. There was no reason their paths should ever have crossed. No reason he should be standing there, her name on his lips like a vow he hadn’t meant to make.

And yet…

“Ishbel,” he repeated, softer now, as if testing the sound. It settled into him at once, like something already familiar. Something he would not forget.

She shifted slightly, embarrassed by the tremor she could not quite still. “I apologize,” she said. “I did not mean tae… collapse like some faint-hearted girl.”

A corner of his mouth lifted, though his gaze remained serious. “Ye stood yer ground when many wouldnae have,” he said. “That is nae bein’ faint. That is courage.”

Her eyes flickered, uncertain, then warmed, just a touch. “I was afraid,” she admitted.

“Aye,” he replied simply. “So was I.” That earned him a faint, surprised smile.

For a moment, neither spoke. In that brief pause of silence, Seamus could see it: the nervousness that still possessed the young lass. The way her fingers still trembled slightly against the fabric of her dress, the way her shoulders remained too tense, as if bracing for another blow that would never come.

There was no point in rushing her. Especially when he had no desire to leave either.

Instead, he decided to lighten the mood between them. The tension was easier to hide when attention was diverted to other things.

After a heartbeat, he added, lightly, “Ye gave Fearchar Kerr quite the fright. I doubt he expected a lass tae bare her teeth at him.”

Her smile faltered, then returned, a little truer this time. “I doubt he expected anyone tae come through that door.”

“Aye,” Seamus said. “That much is clear.”

Another pause followed. The muffled music from the hall drifted in again, distant and unreal. Ishbel’s gaze flicked toward the door, then back to him.

“Should I call fer someone?” he asked gently.

She shook her head. “Not yet. I will go to them soon.” Her voice softened. “But just now… I would rather stay here.”

The admission surprised him. It should not have mattered. It should have meant nothing.

And yet— “Aye,” he said again, more quietly now. “I understand.”

Ishbel’s intrigued gaze followed his every move. A silent question was reaffirmed in her gaze, in the doubt on her part-open lips.

He hesitated, then spoke, his tone low, almost careful.

“If we are tae remain hidden a while longer,” he said, “perhaps ye would dae me the honor of a dance, Lady Ishbel Hume.”

He could see the moment when she held her breath, as if processing the question—and Seamus knew, with bone-deep certainty, that whatever answer she gave would change the course of the night, and far more than that.

Please enable JavaScript in your browser to complete this form.

How likely are you to recommend this preview to a friend?

Not at all Likely Extremely Likely
0	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10

Submit

Best selling books of Lyla

★★★★★ 102 ratings

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.

Read the book

★★★★★ 194 ratings

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…

Read the book