Author: Lyla Rosewood

Chapter One

Glen Spean Corridor, March 1689

Days had passed since the attack on the MacDonald clan by Laird Roderick Munro and his men, yet whenever the wind shifted Catherine swore she caught the sting of ash carried down from the hills. It was a reminder that their keep had been breached, that the MacDonald name itself had almost burned. Now they stood in the courtyard of the castle, the chill air sharp with the scent of pine and river mist, ready to ride to the birlinn that would carry them west to Aidan Cameron’s lands.

She kept her chin lifted high as she stood beside the line of horses, refusing to let her sisters see the heaviness lodged sharp in her chest. Alyson’s pale face was drawn with quiet courage, while Sofia clutched her mare’s reins too tightly, knuckles white against the leather. Catherine would not add her own fear to theirs. She would be steel if she must, even if her heart trembled. For them.

The sound of hooves striking stone pulled her back to that night—the sudden thunder in the courtyard, the shouts that had split the dark. Bare feet against cold flagstones, her skirts gathered high as she flew into the passage, then her brother Michael’s shoulder, blood smeared across his arm, his sword already drawn. Her brother, Tòrr’s voice had cracked through the din, fierce as a whip.

Keep the lasses safe! Get them out!

She blinked against the memory, forced her breath even. At the front, laird Aidan Cameron stood conferring with his men, broad shoulders squared, every movement calm, precise, infuriatingly controlled. Dark hair tugged loose in the wind, his plaid snapping behind him like a banner. He gave nothing away, not a flicker of whatever weight he bore.

And damn him for it. Damn him more for the way the sight caught at her chest. Broad and cut from stone, with the air of a man who needed no one, he looked every inch the kind of warrior women whispered of in corners. She hated that her eyes lingered too long on the line of his jaw, on the quiet strength in the way he held himself, hated that a thought as traitorous as beautiful stirred where only disdain should have lived.

Her pride burned hotter for it. That her and her sisters’ fates should rest in the hands of that man—the one her brothers trusted above all others, her brother Tòrr’s dearest friend and the man who had fought beside Michael more times than she could count. A rake by reputation, cold by nature, with a heart that Michael once muttered was “hard enough fer war.” Catherine had thought it was more curse than compliment.

When Sofia fumbled with her skirts, Catherine leaned to help, disguising the act with a bite of her tongue. “If ye take any longer, sister, the Campbells will have burned the rest o’ the Highlands afore ye settle in the saddle.”

Sofia gasped, scandalized and soothed in the same breath. “Catherine, ye cannae jest o’ such things.”

“’Tis better than weeping.” Catherine flicked her reins, her mare shifting under her with a toss of the head as the iron gates creaked wide. The clang of chains and the groan of wood rolled through the courtyard like a drumbeat of farewell. “And I’ve nae mind tae let those devils have the last o’ me laughter.”

Hooves struck sparks off the cobbles, the sharp rhythm echoing against stone before softening into the damp earth of the open glen. The sound swallowed them whole, the cadence of exile.

Keppoch’s walls loomed high behind, scarred by smoke yet proud still, banners torn but flying. Catherine felt their weight at her back, the tug of everything she was leaving behind, but she refused herself even one last glance. To look was to ache. It was better to ride forward with her chin high, even if her heart dragged like lead.

The road tightened, funneling them into Glen Spean where mist clung heavy to the slopes. Hills rose close and steep, hemming them in, their shoulders draped with pine.

Catherine drew her cloak close, though the cold at her ribs was not from March’s air. It was the memory of the night when flames had lit those very walls they now left, the sound of steel in the dark. She pressed her shoulders straighter against it.

The small party rode in tight formation along the narrowing path through the Glen Spean Corridor, Aidan Cameron and his men leading ahead, the MacDonald sisters guarded in their midst, and a second line of Cameron soldiers closing behind. The rhythm of hooves echoed through the glen, steady and sure, a sound meant to promise safety though Catherine felt none of it.

Alyson rode beside her, lips thinned, jaw tight, silence speaking what her pride would not. Sofia’s wide eyes darted with every stir of shadow. Catherine forced herself into poise, mouth curved in a wry arch, the kind of smile that dared the world to test her, though her pulse pounded fast beneath her calm.

“Tell me,” she said lightly, breaking the silence, “will Aidan Cameron’s grand keep be so fine as he boasts? Or shall we discover that all his pride is smoke and air?”

Alyson sighed. “Dinnae bait him, Catherine. Nae when he holds our charge.”

“Bait him?” Catherine arched her brow. “I merely wonder at the comforts that await us. Fer if we are tae be hidden away like hens, I should at least like the coop tae be well feathered.”

From the head of the column, Aidan’s voice carried back, deep and even. “Ye’ll find Achnacarry secure enough. That is all that matters.”

Catherine smiled, slow and triumphant. “Aye, secure,” she murmured under her breath, “if a woman can bear such company.”

Aidan turned in his saddle then, not fully, just enough that his gaze caught hers over his shoulder. The look was steady, unreadable, but it sent something sharp through her chest all the same.

“Ye’re welcome tae walk if me company offends ye, lass,” he said, the faintest edge of amusement beneath his calm.

“I might,” she returned, chin lifting, “if I trusted the road half so much as ye trust yerself.”

He gave a quiet sound—half laugh, half scoff—and turned forward again, his shoulders shifting beneath the weight of his plaid. Catherine’s pulse stumbled despite herself. She told her heart to still, to remember what sort of man he was: her brother’s friend, her reluctant escort, nothing more.

Catherine felt her lips curl in satisfaction. She had not addressed him directly, yet he had heard her all the same. And if she pricked him enough to draw a reply, then perhaps his lairdly calm was not quite as unshakable as he wished the world to believe.

Hours passed in the steady rhythm of hooves and the occasional murmur of soldiers shifting formation. Catherine’s thoughts circled restlessly, refusing to be stilled. Every turn of the glen seemed too quiet, every tree a place for enemies to crouch. The Highlands were not safe. Not for the MacDonalds, while Angus Campbell gathered clans into his Pact of Argyll, weaving alliances like snares so that their family stood nearly alone against the tide.

Her jaw tightened. She would not be taken like a lamb to slaughter, no matter what Tòrr or Aidan or any man decreed.

The glen widened at last, the loch glimmering ahead through the mist. Catherine took a deep breath, relief prickling through her veins at the sight of the birlinn waiting at the shore, its mast stark against the sky. One passage, and they would be behind Cameron walls. For now, safety seemed within reach.

Until the horses at the front balked. A ripple ran down the line. Catherine straightened in her saddle, eyes narrowing as she peered past the men ahead and she noticed shapes moving on the shore. A band of riders with steel at their sides, waiting.

Her pulse kicked hard. She felt Alyson stiffen beside her, heard Sofia’s quick breath. The air thickened, weighted with the certainty that danger had found them again.

Aidan reined forward, his horse stamping the earth. His voice rang cold across the glen. “What is this?”

The group parted, and a single rider advanced. Catherine’s stomach twisted at the sight of him—familiar in ways that scraped raw against her pride. Broad shoulders, fair hair darker than memory, eyes fixed on her with a heat that made her blood run cold.

“Catherine,” he said, and the name on his tongue was a claim.

Her breath caught. Laird Edwin MacLeod. 

Chapter Two

The letters she had burned, the gifts she had returned, the courtesy she had shown him only because custom demanded it—none of it had severed him. She had been polite, as was expected of her, but she had never encouraged him, never accepted a single word of his supposed courtship. And now, there he stood, blocking her path, armed men at his back.

Aidan’s gaze cut to him, sharp as a drawn blade. “Edwin MacLeod. State yer purpose.”

Edwin’s eyes never left hers. His mouth curved into a smile she knew too well. “I am here fer what is mine.”

Every muscle in Catherine’s body went taut. “What is yers?” Her voice rang clear, though her heart thundered.

Edwin’s smile deepened, and when he spoke the words were a shackle thrown at her feet. “Me betrothed.”

The word struck like a slap. Betrothed.

Catherine’s lips parted, breath catching in outrage before she forced it into steel. “Yer betrothed?” She could hear the blood pounding in her ears, could feel Alyson’s stiff silence beside her and Sofia’s hand clutching at her sleeve.

But Edwin only smiled wider, the same boyish curve he had once wielded at feasts, when he had pressed notes into her hand or lingered too near in corridors. He looked at her as though her protest meant nothing, as though her will were smoke against stone.

Aidan’s gaze cut between them, cool as mountain frost. “What claim dae ye make?”

Edwin straightened, his chest swelling beneath his plaid. “Catherine MacDonald has long been promised tae me. Our faithers began the negotiations when we were bairns, and the contract was near drawn when her father fell. Her brother Tòrr will sign it soon enough—an agreement between our clans, made in good faith.”

Catherine’s hands clenched on her reins, her blood hot. “Ye speak o’ contracts that were never signed, Edwin. There was nay promise, nay word from Tòrr, and certainly nay word from me.”

Edwin’s tone softened, the false tenderness cutting deeper than anger. “Ye forget, Catherine. The MacDonalds ken o’ our courtship. Ye returned me letters only out o’ modesty. Ye cannae deny what all the Highlands already ken.”

“Nay.” Catherine’s voice shook with fury, though she sat tall in the saddle.

A murmur ran through the MacDonald men around her, the uneasy shiver of swords half drawn, of pride affronted. Catherine’s cheeks burned from the humiliation of being spoken of like a parcel to be claimed. She had ignored Edwin’s letters, returned his trinkets, let his eager words fall unanswered. That silence should have been enough of an answer. And yet here he stood, his delusion thickened into chains.

Aidan’s eyes lingered on her longer than on Edwin, searching, assessing, weighing something unspoken. Catherine met his gaze head-on, unwilling to flinch beneath it, though the ground seemed to shift beneath her boots. There was no mockery in his look, only a measured calm that made her pulse stumble.

For one wild heartbeat, she wondered what he saw—a foolish girl dragged into another man’s lie, or a woman worth defending. Either way, she hated that the question mattered. Her throat tightened, pride warring with shame as she forced her chin higher. If he pitied her, she would sooner drown in the Spean than bear it.

“She has her braither’s blessing tae ride wi’ me tae Achnacarry. I’ve heard naught o’ this betrothal.” His tone was even, but it pressed like the edge of a blade.

Catherine’s throat tightened. She hated that he looked at her, hated more that part of her wanted him to see the truth in her eyes, to know she had never given Edwin cause. Pride locked her jaw. She would not beg for his belief.

Edwin laughed low. “Nae yet official, nay. But Laird MacDonald will hear me. I’ve courted her these many months, and I’ll nae be denied what’s mine by some Cameron dog sniffing at her heels.”

The insult snapped through the air like flint to tinder. Catherine saw the shift in Aidan’s shoulders, the way his body went still before the strike, controlled and dangerous. The men behind him froze as if bound by the same invisible thread that held her breath still in her chest.

He looked carved from the Highlands themselves, every line of him honed by war and weather, the wind tugging his dark hair across a face set in quiet fury. The air around him thickened, the kind of silence that came before storms, and for one treacherous moment she could not tell if it was fear or something far more dangerous that made her heart race.

Aidan’s gaze flicked toward her, brief and burning, and the look struck harder than any sword. In that instant, she forgot the men around them, forgot Edwin’s boast, forgot everything but the dark steadiness in Aidan Cameron’s eyes and the silent promise that he would not let her be taken.

“Until such vows are spoken, MacLeod,” Aidan said, voice iron, “ye’ve nay right tae bar me path.”

“Then ye’ll test it?” Edwin’s smile sharpened. “I thought as much. Ye’ve always thought yerself above all o’ us.”

The glen went silent save for the restless stamping of horses. Catherine’s pulse hammered so loud she thought the men must hear it. She wanted to scream at them both, to tear down their arrogance, yet her words tangled against the rising wall of dread.

“Stop this,” she cried, the sound raw, dragged from her chest with more desperation than control. “Both o’ ye, stop!”

Her voice rang out, but against the stone of their pride it struck hollow. Edwin’s gaze remained locked on her, burning with the certainty of possession, while Aidan’s profile was carved in iron, unreadable save for the flicker of something fierce in his eyes. Neither yielded. Neither even flinched.

Then came the clean, metallic rasp of steel leaving its scabbard. Aidan had drawn first. The motion was swift, unhesitating, the blade flashing in the thin light as he levelled it toward Edwin with a steadiness that sent a shiver down Catherine’s spine.

The air shivered in answer, MacLeod men bristling, hands flying to hilts, MacDonald and Cameron steel gleaming in kind. Aidan’s defiance had loosed the cord, and there was no binding it again.

A spark of movement—one soldier stepping forward, another answering—and the thread snapped.

The glen erupted.

Swords clashed, ringing sharp enough to split the mist. Horses screamed and reared, hooves lashing the earth, showering mud and sparks as steel met steel. Shouts tore the air, commands lost in the chaos, cries of pain already rising.

“Nay!” Catherine spurred her horse forward, the animal lurching beneath her as panic shot like fire through her veins. Her heart hammered hard enough she thought it might break her ribs, her ears filled with the relentless clash of blades, the scrape of iron on iron, the dull thud of steel meeting flesh.

Every strike, every roar of defiance, every drop of blood spilled on this narrow stretch of glen was because of her. For her name, her body, her freedom, as though she were some prize to be won and dragged away, as though she were not flesh and spirit but coin passed from one man’s hand to another.

The weight of it crushed her chest, left her breath ragged and her fury sharp.

Aidan wheeled his mount, cutting down a MacLeod who lunged too close. “Get them away!” His command cracked through the chaos. His men surged toward her, hands reaching for her reins, for Alyson’s, for Sofia’s.

“Dinnae touch me!” Catherine snapped, jerking her arm free, though terror clawed her throat. She twisted in the saddle, eyes wide to the chaos—Edwin bellowing orders, his men driving hard at Cameron steel, MacDonald colors blurring in the frenzy. The air stank of sweat and iron and the first splatter of blood.

Beside her, Sofia’s horse shied, nearly unseating her. Catherine reached across, steadying her sister even as a soldier pressed forward. “Me lady, we must move!”

Alyson’s voice cut sharp, steadier than Catherine’s heart. “Catherine, ride!”

But Catherine’s gaze had already caught the line of Aidan through the press, the way he moved like a force cut from the storm itself. Every strike of his blade was measured, every command torn from his chest like thunder. And still he spared a glance back to her, eyes blazing.

Heat and fury tangled in her chest. That look—aye, he would keep her safe, whether she liked it or not.

Yet her pride screamed against being bundled away while men bled for her. “This is madness!” she cried, but the words vanished in the clash.

Aidan turned, his voice like iron shattering stone. “Go, Catherine!”

Her body trembled with fury, with fear, with the helplessness she hated above all else. And still, she felt herself pulled, her sisters pressed close, the swirl of soldiers urging them toward the trees, away from the crash of steel where Aidan Cameron’s blade met Edwin MacLeod’s.

The clash of steel rang through the glen, echoing off the wet rock walls and rolling down into the narrow pass below. Catherine rode near the rear of the column with her sisters, half shielded by the Cameron guards who had formed a protective ring around them. The glen widened into a churn of mud and shadow where Aidan and his men met the ambush head-on. Horses screamed, men shouted, the air alive with the hiss of blades and the smell of rain-soaked earth.

She twisted in her saddle, straining for a glimpse past the men blocking her sight, and caught only flashes—the glint of steel, the dark sweep of Aidan’s plaid, the controlled rhythm of his strikes as he fought at the front line. He moved like a man born to command both chaos and steel, his blows clean and deliberate amid the frenzy.

The noise of the fight rolled toward them, a storm made flesh. Aidan’s voice carried above it, low and sure, barking orders that kept the line from breaking. Behind him, his men obeyed without hesitation, closing ranks wherever he directed.

Catherine felt the sound of his command more than she heard it, the kind of voice that could hold the world together if it chose. She told herself it was only gratitude, only fear for her life, yet her heart beat to its rhythm all the same.

She had seen men fight before—her brothers, her clansmen—but none like him. There was a terrible grace to it, a beauty she wanted to despise and could not. Every movement of his arm seemed carved from purpose, every strike a promise that he would not fail her.

And yet her breath would not steady. If he fell, it would all fall.

“Ride harder!” one of Cameron’s men barked, his horse pressing close against Alyson’s. “We must clear the glen!”

She rode, pressed tight between her sisters, her fury the only weapon left to her. Mud spattered up her skirts, the wind biting sharp through the glen as the Cameron soldiers shouted for them to keep pace. Ahead, Aidan’s men were driving the line forward, cutting through the chaos toward the trees where safety waited.

She searched for him through the blur of rain and steel—for the flash of his sword, the sound of his voice. When she found him, her chest ached with something fierce and unnamable. He looked unbreakable, the dark plaid sweeping behind him, every strike as if the world around him seemed to obey. Even through the din, she could feel the gravity of him—the command, the danger, the maddening pull that set her blood alight.

A shout tore through the storm, “Tae the trees! Ride!”

The sisters spurred their horses toward the edge of the wood. The path narrowed, the ground slick beneath the hooves, and for one brief heartbeat Catherine thought they might reach cover.

Then the shadows moved. Men burst from the undergrowth, their plaids marked with MacLeod colors, blades flashing like lightning. The air cracked with the sound of steel meeting steel as Cameron guards wheeled to meet the ambush. Horses shrieked, hooves striking sparks on stone as the line buckled and split.

Catherine’s heart slammed against her ribs as one of the guards shouted for her to keep riding, but the order came too late. Rough hands seized Sofia’s reins, another shoved Alyson’s mare hard aside, but the men did not linger on them. Their eyes were fixed squarely on her.

“Take her!” one bellowed. “The lady’s tae come with us!”

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Prologue

1713, Lennox Castle

Davina Lennox stirred at the sudden scrape, sharp enough to slice through her dreams.

Her eyes fluttered open to darkness, with her chamber still steeped in heavy shadows. She lay still, straining to listen.

Nothing.

Only the restless thud of her heart and the quiet hiss of the wind outside her window. She told herself it was no more than the house settling, the kind of noise old beams and stone made at night.

Her lashes lowered again. She could feel sleep hovering close. And then… cold, rough fingers clamped around her arms.

Davina’s scream tore through the stillness as she thrashed upright, the sheets tangling around her legs. In the pitch black, she collided with a solid body. The heat of this person, the reek of sweat and leather, were too close. She gasped in panic and shoved against them. She was mindless with fear as her nails raked and her fists thrashed around. Another set of hands seized her wrist, wrenching it back.

“Nay!” she cried, twisting her entire body with all her strength in an effort to free herself.

She staggered from the bed and lurched toward the door, her bare feet striking the rug in a frantic rush. The chamber spun in disorienting shadow, but she managed to claw the latch free. The door swung wide open and candlelight spilled in from the corridor. For a fleeting heartbeat, relief flared, but that was only until she saw them.

There were four of them. Four men in the night, looming at the threshold, all broad-shouldered and all masked with rough scarves and shadows. Light glinted off a blade one of them had in his belt.

Terror knifed through her.

Davina lunged forward, wild and desperate, striking at the nearest man with her fists. He grunted and staggered back, but another caught her by the waist. She kicked, screamed, twisted free enough to claw at his cheek. She nearly slipped past them into the corridor, feeling the hope of escape sparking in her chest.

She wrenched against their hold, opening her mouth to scream for help, but before she could cry out, she felt a sharp crack as a man’s palm struck across her cheek. Her head whipped to the side, the sting burning her skin. The taste of copper flooded her mouth and it made her gag. The brute raised his hand again, and she could see fury flashing in his eyes, but before the second blow could land, another caught his wrist.

“Enough,” he growled. “The laird gave clear instructions that she’s tae be brought unharmed.”

The man snarled but lowered his hand, grumbling beneath his breath. Davina tried to take advantage of the pause, inhaling to scream again, but a square of cloth was shoved between her teeth, muffling her cry into a helpless, desperate sound. The bitter tang of dust and linen filled her mouth as she gagged against it.

Her wrists were wrenched together behind her back and bound with coarse rope, the fibers biting deep into her skin. She twisted frantically, her chest heaving as the air in the corridor seemed too thin to breathe. Somehow, with a wild surge of strength, she slipped past their grasp and bolted.

Her bare feet slapped against the stone floor, her nightdress fluttering around her legs as she raced down the hall. Freedom was just ahead, if only she could reach the stairs, if only she could make enough noise…

A hand clamped around her arm, wrenching her back with brutal force. She cried out against the gag, but the sound was strangled and useless. Another man caught her waist, lifting her feet clean off the floor as she kicked and writhed. Her heel struck flesh, drawing a hiss of pain, but it wasn’t enough. They dragged her back, her body thrashing and her lungs burning with the effort of her muffled screams.

The walls seemed to close in, the flickering candlelight mocking her with its frail warmth. All her strength, all her fury was swallowed in their iron grips. Helpless, Davina felt the terror settle deep in her bones as the corridor spun around her, her world narrowing to the suffocating press of hands and shadows.

The men half-carried, half-dragged her through the dim corridor, her heels scraping along the stone. She twisted against their grip, feeling panic clawing at her chest. The gag bit into her mouth, smothering her cries, but her eyes darted wildly, praying to find for something she could use.

Suddenly, her hip brushed the edge of a small table set against the wall. In a desperate surge, she seized the heavy vase resting there with her still bound hands. Then, with all the strength born of her terror, she swung it backward.

The vase smashed against one of her captors’ temples with a sickening crack. He bellowed and collapsed, dragging the others off balance. The porcelain shattered on the floor, the shards scattering like a scream through the silence.

The noise echoed through the hall.

“Damn her!” the leader snarled, shoving her forward with renewed fury. “Move! Quickly, before the whole blasted castle wakes!”

From the corner of her eye, Davina saw a door creak open. A servant with hair still tousled from sleep stepped into the hall, blinking at the scene before him. His gaze widened with dawning horror.

“Help! The lady—”

He never finished. One of the brutes lunged forward and brought a heavy fist down upon the man’s skull. The crack of impact was sharp and sickening. The servant crumpled to the floor without a sound, his body motionless.

Davina’s heart stopped, terror choking her. Despite the shattering crash and the servant’s cry, no rescue came swiftly enough. The intruders surged forward with brutal efficiency, dragging Davina through the halls. She kicked and writhed, her nails clawing at their arms, but another rough rope lashed around her ankles, and she stumbled, utterly powerless.

“Head out! And watch her closely!” The leader barked orders, his tone sharp and furious.

They bound her tighter, her wrists biting under the cords until her hands went numb. The gag smothered her screams to a muffled sob as they hauled her out into the night.

The chill air struck her like a slap. Moonlight spilled across the courtyard, throwing their shadows long against the cobbles. Her heart pounded, each beat a hammer of terror as they thrust her toward waiting horses.

Behind them, the castle suddenly erupted. Doors began flying open and shouts were echoing down the corridors.

“Davina!”

It was her brother’s voice. Finley’s roar split the night like a battle cry.

Hope flared inside of her, sharp and aching, as she twisted in her captors’ grip. Through tear-blurred eyes, she glimpsed him: Finley, with his dark hair wild and a pistol in hand, men rushing at his side.

“Hold her!” the leader snarled.

They hauled her onto a horse, with her body thrashing more than before, but the ropes digging deep, keeping her bound. A man vaulted up behind her, pinning her to the saddle as another spurred the beast into motion. Hooves thundered against stone, drowning her frantic, muffled screams.

She heard the answering thunder behind them. It was Finley’s men giving chase, their steel flashing in the moonlight.

“Davina!” Finley’s voice carried, raw with desperation.

Her heart broke with every frantic beat. She tried to cry out, to let him know she was still there, still fighting, but the gag swallowed her plea. The distance widened, while the pounding hooves carried her farther and farther into the dark.

Eventually, her brother’s voice grew fainter, swallowed by the night.

Davina’s chest ached with the weight of it, the weight of a hollow, crushing grief. She had never felt so lost, so utterly torn from the safety of her world. And as the castle walls vanished behind her, she knew that Finley would not reach her in time.

She also knew that the night had swallowed them whole.

The thunder of hooves echoed all around, the gang riding as one shadowy mass through the castle gates and into the wild beyond. The wind clawed at her hair, dragging it loose from its braid until it whipped across her face. Tears blurred her vision, but she caught fleeting glimpses of the world rushing past: the dark smear of forest, the glint of moonlight on water, the rolling expanse of moor.

She twisted her head, straining to hear more. For a moment she thought she could almost see the gleam of torches and the flash of steel, but the distance grew.

“They’ll nae catch us,” the leader barked over the rush of wind. “Drive them hard!”

The others spurred their mounts, and the horses leapt forward with renewed speed. The pounding in Davina’s chest matched the frantic rhythm of the hooves. She fought against her bonds until her skin tore raw, but there was no give, no mercy.

The cold seeped into her bones, chilling her thin nightdress, but it was nothing compared to the dread gnawing at her. Every mile carried her farther from her home, from Finley’s reach, from everything she knew.

The man behind her shifted, pressing the edge of a blade against her side, a silent warning not to try again. Davina’s breath hitched and she could feel terror roaring in her ears. She stilled, though her heart screamed for freedom.

The ride became an endless nightmare.

Hours bled together, with the pounding hooves a constant drum that rattled her bones. Her body swayed against the saddle, bound too tightly to move and too weary to resist. Her breaths came shallow behind the gag, each one a struggle. Darkness tugged at her again and again, dragging her under until she drifted into unconsciousness, only to be jolted awake by another violent lurch of the horse.

By the time the black sky paled to grey, Davina’s limbs trembled with exhaustion. Her throat burned, her head throbbed, and her spirit felt frayed thin. Dawn crept over the land, unveiling a landscape of jagged hills and mist. At last, the horses slowed.

They stopped up before an ancient castle, stone walls rising stark against the morning light.

Rough hands dragged Davina down from the saddle. Her legs buckled, her body too weak to hold her, and she collapsed onto her knees in the dirt.

The leader approached, looming above her. With one swift tug, he tore the gag from her mouth and Davina gasped and choked, sucking in the cold air as though she had been drowning.

Her throat ached, but she forced words past them. “Where am I? What dae ye want with me?”

The questions rang in the silence, trembling with fear yet edged with defiance.

The man stared down at her, his face shadowed beneath his hood. He said nothing… not a single word. And that silence was worse than any threat, as his gaze sent a cold dread crawling along her spine.

He turned away without answering. At his gesture, two of the others seized her arms and hauled her upright. Her knees scraped against the stone as they dragged her towards a side entrance of the castle. The air inside was colder, as if the walls themselves remembered blood and betrayal.

The interior was vast yet grand in the arched doorways, in the carved lintels and the large hall.

The men hauled her deeper until they came to a chamber with high walls covered in tapestries, a hearth with a burning fire, and the needed amount of furniture. The echo of their footsteps filled the space like the toll of a bell.

They shoved her down onto the flagstones. The ropes at her wrists and ankles kept her helpless, her chest heaving as she tried to steady her breath. Her eyes darted, searching for any path, any chance, but she was cornered, prey caught in the lair of hunters.

Then a voice, smooth and low, slid from the shadows.

“So… Lady Davina Lennox.”

She startled, her head snapping toward the sound. From the far side of the ruined chamber, a figure stepped into the weak light. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a cloak that appeared heavy and dark, he carried himself with the air of command. His features were cast in shadow, but his presence alone chilled her more than the ropes that bound her.

“Dae ye ken me?” he asked, his tone almost curious.

Davina swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “Nay,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from the gag.

The man’s lips curled into a smile. Not warm. Not kind. It was a smile that belonged to wolves and serpents.

“I am nae surprised,” he murmured. “But ye will.”

The words slithered through the chamber, and Davina’s blood ran cold. The men laughed quietly behind her, the sound rough and cruel, as the man’s eyes lingered on her like a predator savoring the catch.

The man stepped closer, his boots grinding against the stones. The morning light caught his face at last. She could see harsh lines and eyes like shards of flint. His smile remained, though it had sharpened into something far crueler.

“I am Laird Donald Mackay,” he said, his voice low but carrying the weight of authority. “And ye, Lady Davina, are the key.”

Davina blinked, stunned. The name struck her like a blow, for it was one she had heard whispered in hushed tones: a man of power, tempered by ruthlessness, his lands marked by feuds and blood. She fought to find her voice.

“The key tae what?” she demanded, though her words trembled.

“Tae the truth, of course,” he said, with his eyes narrowing. “Me wife’s death was nay accident. It was nay fever, nay passing misfortune. Someone in The Triad knows what befell her. And through ye, yer precious family and their ties tae that secret circle of women, ye will help me uncover it.”

The Triad.

The name coiled through her mind like a shadow. She knew of it, of course. Everyone had heard whispers of a clandestine sisterhood, powerful women working in silence to protect, to unearth, to avenge. But that her captor knew of such a network chilled her to the marrow.

“I ken naething,” she whispered fiercely. “Ye have made a mistake—”

Before she could finish, his hand shot out, striking her across the cheek with a vicious backhand. Pain exploded in her skull, and she toppled sideways onto the cold stones. Her breath came in shallow gasps, tears springing to her eyes as she pressed her bound hands against her throbbing face.

Mackay crouched beside her, his voice a hiss. “Ye will ken. Or yer family will make sure of it. One way or another, I will have what I seek.”

He rose and motioned to his men. Two seized her by the arms and dragged her across the hall. They forced her into a side chamber, which was a cell of stone and shadow, where iron rings still jutted from the wall.

With brutal efficiency, they lashed her wrists to the cold iron. It burned into her skin, the stone damp and unforgiving at her back. The heavy door slammed shut, and the echo reverberated like the sealing of a tomb.

Davina sagged against the wall, feeling pain radiating from her cheek, while her heart was battering against her ribs. She tried to steady her breath, but terror pressed on her chest like a weight. The place were silent again, save for the sound of her own labored breathing.

Alone and imprisoned, Davina Lennox stared into the darkness and knew: her nightmare had only just begun.

Chapter One

1717, Near Lennox Castle

The morning air was crisp and the sun was still low enough to cast long streaks of gold across the hills. Davina quickened her steps, the hem of her riding habit brushing damp grasses as she left Lennox Castle behind. The town was not far, and though the road wound long around the valley and over the bridge, she had no patience for its meandering path.

Time was precious. She would cut straight across.

The stream ran fast from the rains the night before, its water cold as it rushed over smooth stones. Gathering her skirts, Davina waded in, feeling her boots slipping on the mossy rocks as she picked her way across. She was more than halfway, the far bank nearly within reach, when a sudden sound split the quiet. It was the sharp, thunderous beat of oncoming hooves.

Her head snapped up, and her heart jolted. Across the rise to her left, five riders burst into view, with their horses charging at full speed. Sunlight glanced off leather and steel, but their faces were unfamiliar. They were strangers.

Davina’s breath caught, her stomach clenching into a knot of dread. For a moment the world tilted, and she was back in the shadows of her chamber four years ago, with men’s hands dragging her down and muffling her screams. The memory hit her like a blow, leaving her blood cold.

“Nay…” she whispered, though no one could hear.

Panic clawed at her throat. She stumbled forward, splashing through the water in a frantic rush to the far bank. Her skirts dragged, heavy with the stream’s chill, but she pressed on, her gaze darting wildly for an escape.

Behind her, the riders shouted to one another, their voices carried over the rush of water and pounding hooves. The horses reached the stream’s edge, great beasts snorting and stamping as they prepared to ford it.

Davina’s breath came sharp and fast. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to flee before the nightmare began again.

She scrambled up the slick bank, panic urging her faster than her footing allowed. Her boots slipped on wet stone, while her heavy skirts pulled her down. She pitched forward, and a sharp cry broke from her lips as she lost her balance.

The cold rush of the stream rose to meet her face, but in that moment, strong hands caught her, hauling her back before she could strike the water. She stumbled against a hard chest, her breath sharp with shock and her gown already sodden and clinging uncomfortably to her form. Water streamed down her sleeves, and her bodice was plastered against her skin, outlining every curve. Heat flamed in her cheeks, though her heart still hammered with fear.

She lifted her gaze.

The man who held her was tall and muscular, his dark hair falling in disheveled strands across his brow. His eyes, which were piercing brown with amber flecks, locked on hers with unsettling intensity. A faint scar traced his jaw, which she assumed was a mark of battles past. His grip was steady and unyielding, as though he had no intention of letting her fall.

Goodness me, how strong he is!

For a single breathless moment, Davina froze. His strength and his steadiness should have reassured her. But memory betrayed her, dragging her back to other hands, other grips that had stolen her freedom. Fear surged like ice through her veins.

She shoved against him, her voice breaking sharp with anger that masked her terror. “What on earth dae ye think ye’re doing, charging at me like that?”

The man’s brows lowered. “Charging at ye?” His tone was incredulous. “Ye were about tae drown yerself in the stream. I was the one who pulled ye back.”

Davina blinked, stung by his bluntness, though her pride bristled more fiercely than her gratitude.

“I was nae about tae drown,” she retorted, hugging her soaked arms across her chest. “I was crossing perfectly well until ye and those men came thundering down like a pack of raiders.”

He released her at last, straightening to his full, imposing height. His expression was hard and unreadable, though a flicker of amusement sharpened his eyes.

“If rescuing a lady from cracking her skull against the rocks earns me scolding, I wonder what thanks would look like.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she became horribly aware of herself, of her wet gown clinging to her figure, of her hair plastered damply against her cheek and the chill of the morning air biting at her skin. His gaze flickered once, brief but undeniable, before he looked away with soldierly discipline. Still, it was enough to set her pulse racing in ways she did not welcome.

Davina stiffened, lifting her chin with what dignity she could muster while dripping stream water. “I didnae ask fer yer rescue.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Aye. But ye needed it.”

The words stung, though his steady presence made it impossible to dismiss him outright. Her pride warred with the unwelcome awareness of just how dangerously attractive he was, and how that scar lent him an air of hardened resilience.

She hated herself for noticing.

“Who are ye?” she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended. “And what business have ye here, coming down on me as though the very Devil were at yer heels?”

The man’s brows lifted. “I might ask the same of ye,” he said evenly. “What lady wanders intae a stream at dawn, alone, without so much as a servant tae steady her step?”

Her eyes flashed. “I dinnae answer tae ye, sir. It is hardly yer concern where I walk.”

“And yet,” he said, his arms folding across his broad chest, “ye would already be face-first in the water if nae for me.”

Davina bristled. She hated that he was right. She hated even more the heat that crept into her throat when his gaze met hers, as though he saw too much.

She lifted her chin. “I asked yer name.”

He tilted his head, studying her as though weighing how much to give away. “And I asked yers.”

Her mouth fell open in outrage. “Ye—! Dae ye make it a habit tae turn every inquiry back upon the lady who asked it?”

His eyes glinted, dark and unreadable, but there was amusement, she realized, though well-hidden behind his stern composure. “Only when the lady seems determined tae scold me fer saving her life.”

Davina sucked in a breath, furious at his insolence, furious at herself for noticing how the morning light caught the scar along his jaw, lending him a rough, dangerous sort of beauty. Her heart beat too fast, though she told herself it was only from fright, not from the way his nearness unsettled her.

“Sir,” she said, her tone low and icy, “ye will answer me plainly, or I shall—”

He leaned in slightly, enough that she caught the faint scent of leather and pine. “Or ye shall what?”

Davina’s lips parted, ready to unleash a cutting remark, when his voice cut across her, low and edged with challenge. “Or ye shall fall intae the water again?” His dark brow arched, and a flicker of wryness warmed his gaze. “Mind ye, I might nae rescue ye this time.”

Her jaw dropped. The sheer audacity of him made her cheeks flame hotter than the morning sun.

“Ye are insufferable, sir!” she burst out, planting her fists on her soaked skirts.

His mouth curved not into a smile, but into something that suggested he enjoyed her fury more than he ought. He straightened, folding his arms across his chest. As such, he was the picture of cool composure in contrast to her dripping indignation.

At last, he inclined his head slightly, as though bestowing a gift. “Arran Mackay,” he said. His voice was steady, unflinching, but she thought she caught the faintest tightening of his jaw as he added. “On me way tae Castle Lennox.”

The name struck her like a blow. Davina’s breath caught, her heart hammering. She took a sharp step back, while her skirts were still clinging wetly to her legs. Her instinct urged her to run away without looking back, but she knew well that he wasn’t alone. The son of the man who had abducted her had come with his men and there were at least a dozen of his men scattered about.

“Nay.” Her voice trembled with fury, with fear, with the ghosts of four years past. “Nay Mackay is welcome at Lennox. Nae now and nae ever.”

If her words surprised him, he didn’t show it. His gaze held hers, steady and unreadable. “Ye cannae ken that.”

“I can,” Davina snapped. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked at him as though he were the very devil himself standing before her. “I ken it because I was the girl, Davina Lennox, that yer laird, yer faither, dragged from her bed in the dead of night. I ken it because I was the one bound, gagged, and stolen away by Donald Mackay.”

The words tore from her throat, raw, jagged, and they seemed to strike him like arrows. For a heartbeat, silence reigned.

Arran’s expression hardened, his jaw working as though he bit back words. His eyes, once flecked with that faint glimmer of humor, were dark now, shadowed with something resembling shame and anger, revealing perhaps a wound too old and too raw.

Davina’s breath came hard and fast, her body taut with outrage. Yet even as her fury rose, she could not look away from him, nor from the storm she saw brewing behind his eyes.

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