Rain lashed the stone walls of the old garrison at Fort de Launay, turning the training yard below into a churned pit of mud and shouts.
Arran Mackay stood beneath the overhang, with his fists still wrapped from the morning drills. Stray curls of dark hair clung to his brow and sweat slid down the line of the scar on his jaw.
He relished the ache in his muscles. Pain was simple. It was predictable; a far cry from the life he had left behind.
That was when a stable boy sprinted across the yard, splashing through the mire. “Monsieur Mackay!” he called out breathlessly, clutching a sealed letter. “From Scotland, marked urgent!”
Arran’s stomach tightened. Only two things ever came urgent from Inverness: war… or death.
He took the letter in silence, and the familiar wax of Clan Mackay stared up at him like an accusation, with its black seal of a rampant stag. That was his father’s mark, the very thing he had crossed half a continent to escape.
For a long moment, Arran didn’t break the seal. He simply stared at it, with his jaw clenched until it hurt. Rain needled the back of his neck, but he barely noticed it.
That seal had immense power. He had seen that seal used to order raids, punishments, even hangings. It had shaped his own childhood, with a scowl and a fist.
At last, he snapped the seal and unfolded the parchment. His eyes moved once down the page. Then again, more slowly this time.
Laird Donald Mackay is dead.
The words blurred for a moment before steadying, symbolizing the end of an era. His father was gone. The tyrant of Inverness. The man who had ruled their clan with an iron will, a cold heart, and a hand forever poised to strike.
Arran exhaled. He couldn’t believe it.
He had pictured that moment before, but never like that, never alone on foreign soil, with nothing but rain and the distant clang of French steel to witness it.
Oddly enough, there was no relief and no triumph. All he could feel was a hollow weight in his chest. He should have known that a lifetime of wounds would not vanish with a single death.
His gaze dropped to the final line:
Ye must return at once. The clan will fracture without its laird. If ye dinnae claim yer faither’s seat, others will.
So, it had come to this… duty.
Behind him, footsteps approached. He guessed Captain Rousseau’s stride easily. The man was broad-shouldered, mustached, and ever boisterous.
“What is it, mon ami?”
Arran folded the letter carefully, though his hand trembled once before he stilled it. Then, he faced his friend. “Me faither is dead,” he said simply, as if discussing the weather. He was both unaffected and utterly distraught by the news, and the two kept tilting to one side, then to the next.
“The tyrant of the north has final fallen,” the captain murmured. “You did not love him, I know that much. But still… he was your father.”
Arran swallowed heavily before replying. “A man can be faither in name and stranger in all else.”
Rousseau nodded, understanding more than he said. “And yet you go back.”
“Aye.” Arran’s voice was quiet. “Me clan will tear itself apart if I dinnae. Me faither ruled through fear. Men like that create enemies faster than sons.”
“Enemies you must now inherit,” Rousseau said grimly.
Arran didn’t deny it. “There are chieftains in the north who will use me faither’s death tae grab power. Others who will swear they loved him, then spit on his grave. And some…” His eyes darkened. “Some who will blame me, though I was leagues away.”
“Is this why you left?” Rousseau asked gently. “To escape his shadow?”
Arran hesitated. “Tae learn if I existed beyond it.”
The captain’s eyes burned with something like pride. “And you did. You became a leader men willingly follow. Not because they fear you, but because they would die for you.” Then Rousseau’s voice dropped. “But Scotland is not France. Here, a strong hand keeps peace. In the Highlands? A dagger keeps it better.”
Arran’s silence spoke his agreement. He looked out across the sodden training yard, where French soldiers barked orders through the downpour. For years, this place had been his exile, his refuge, and his proving ground. Here, he had carved out an identity that was not his father’s and not his clan’s. It was solely his own.
But the Highlands called him back all the same.
“Dae ye think I can hold a fractured clan taegether?” Arran asked, surprising himself with the confession. His voice carried no fear, only the hollow truth of a man who had survived too much to lie to himself.
Rousseau’s answer was steady. “Oui. Because you know what you refuse to become. And because the Highlands do not need another Donald Mackay.” He rested a firm palm against Arran’s arm. “They need the man I have seen, the man who fights with honor, the man who protects what is his.”
Arran swallowed, the words striking deeper than he wished. “Ye speak as though I already belong tae them.”
“I speak as though you never stopped.”
A long silence followed, broken only by rain and distant commands.
He inhaled deeply, then spoke. “I leave by first light.”
Rousseau clasped his shoulder. “Then I pray Scotland is kind to you.”
Arran gave a humorless smile. “Scotland has never been kind. I dinnae expect it tae start now.”
He turned from the yard, heading for his chambers to pack. There was not a moment to lose. Lives depended on it… he knew that much. He remembered his father’s voice, cold as steel:
Kindness makes a man weak. Rule with fear and fear alone.
Arran had sworn, long ago, to be nothing like him. Now, he would return to the very place that had made him. He would return to a clan that mistrusted him, to enemies who had not forgotten his father’s sins, to a land where loyalty was as sharp as a blade and every alliance could turn to ash.
And somewhere in those mist-covered Highlands, buried beneath his father’s ruin, lay the truth of his mother’s death, the wound that had poisoned everything.
As he walked, he could feel the storm at his back and Scotland ahead, cold and waiting for him. But whether he would come to it as its laird, its shield or its next casualty, was yet to be determined.
Loved this bonus chapter? Keep the adventure alive—continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
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.
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…
Arran laughed softly without looking back, guiding his horse along the narrow path winding through the forest. “We are nae lost, Davina. Ye’ve asked me that four times now.”
“Well,” she said, pretending to study the trees around them with great seriousness, “it looks suspiciously familiar. I could have sworn that very fern was the one we passed half an hour ago.”
“That fern,” he replied, glancing over his shoulder with a grin, “is one of thousands, lass. I’d hate tae think ye’re keeping count.”
Davina arched a brow, her lips curving momentarily. “I could, if it meant proving a point.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Fer shame, Lady Davina. Ye’ve nay faith in yer husband’s sense of direction.”
“Oh, I have faith,” she said airily, “just nae in yer directions.”
Arran shot her a look over his shoulder, the kind that always made her want to laugh. “Ye wound me.”
She smiled sweetly. “Ye’ll live.”
The forest around them was alive with color, as the first full bloom of summer turned every branch and meadow into a sea of green and gold. It was the same path they had once taken by accident, the one that had led them hopelessly astray and to the moment everything between them had begun to change.
Davina suddenly remembered it all. “Ye ken, I didnae much mind the last time we got lost.”
Arran turned slightly in the saddle, his grin unmistakably wicked. “Oh aye? And why’s that, me lady?”
“Because,” she said, feigning thoughtfulness, “if I recall, it led tae a rather… interesting evening.”
He slowed his horse just enough for her to draw even with him. “Interesting, was it?”
“I might even say unforgettable.”
He leaned a little closer. “Well now, if ye’re that fond of the experience…”
Her laughter bubbled up before she could stop it. “Arran Mackay, ye wouldnae dare.”
He smiled with that familiar glint in his eyes. “Oh, I think I would. We could get lost again, if ye’d like.”
Davina gasped in mock outrage, feeling her cheeks warming, even after all that time. “Ye’re incorrigible!”
“And ye,” he said, his voice full of quiet affection, “are trouble I’d happily lose me way fer.”
She shook her head, unable to hide her smile. “Flattery will nae make the path any clearer.”
“It daesnae have tae,” he said softly, reaching to take her hand where their horses rode side by side. “As long as I’ve got ye, I’ll never truly be lost.”
Davina looked up at him, feeling her heart full to the brim. “Ye always ken just what tae say.”
He smiled. “Aye. Took me long enough tae learn, did it nae?”
She laughed quietly, resting her hand over his. “Worth the wait.”
They continued riding for a few minutes, when she called out to him.
“Arran?”
He glanced back immediately. “Aye, love? What is it?”
“Would ye stop fer a moment?”
He pulled his reins at once, his brow furrowing as his horse slowed beside hers. “Are ye alright?”
Davina smiled, touched by the worry in his tone. “I’m fine,” she assured him. “Truly. Just a little tired. And as this is a lovely spot…” She gestured to the patch of sunlight breaking through the trees. “I thought we might sit fer a while. If ye dinnae mind.”
He was off his horse before she’d even finished the sentence. “Mind? Ye’ve only tae ask.”
Davina laughed softly as he reached up, helping her down from the saddle with careful hands, as though she were made of glass. She rolled her eyes, but the gesture was fond.
“Arran Mackay,” she teased, “I’m perfectly capable of stepping down on me own.”
“Aye,” he said, smiling, “but humor me. It keeps me feeling useful.”
He led her toward a fallen log nestled in a little clearing, where sunlight poured like honey through the leaves. Birds trilled somewhere above, and the world smelled of pine and wild roses. It was peaceful, almost impossibly so.
Davina sat first, smoothing her skirts. Arran joined her a heartbeat later, settling close enough that their shoulders brushed.
“Better now?” he asked quietly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
She leaned against him with a small sigh. “Much.”
His warmth surrounded her, and now, his heartbeat was strong beneath her ear. She could feel him watching her with that slight crease between his brows, the one that always appeared when he was trying not to fuss.
“Ye’ve been pushing yerself,” he murmured. “Ye should rest more.”
“I’ve been walking,” she said, smiling faintly. “Hardly a great trial.”
He huffed softly. “Aye, but I’ll nae have ye tiring yerself. Ye’re… precious cargo now.”
Davina’s heart softened. “Ye say that as though I were a ship full of coins.”
He gave a low chuckle, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Aye, well, ye’re far rarer than any treasure I’ve kent.”
Davina’s fingers traced idle circles over the back of Arran’s hand where it rested on her knee. She smiled faintly, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her touch.
Then, almost without thinking, she said. “Speaking of precious cargo…”
Her voice trailed off before she could stop herself.
Arran turned to her at once, his brows knitting. “What was that?”
She hesitated, her heart fluttering fast and bright. “Naething,” she replied quickly. “Or… well, something.”
“Davina,” he said gently, tilting her chin toward him. “What dae ye mean?”
Her lips curved into a small, nervous smile. “I mean…” She took a breath, steadying herself, and then met his gaze. “Ye were right, Arran. I am carrying something precious.”
For a heartbeat, he only stared at her and she could see the realization dawning in his eyes, slow and disbelieving.
“Ye mean…?”
Davina nodded. “Aye, Arran. I am with child.”
Arran went utterly still. The forest seemed to hold its breath with him.
“Are ye certain?” he asked, barely managing the words.
She laughed softly, tears slipping down her cheeks before she could stop them. “I’ve missed two of me monthlies now, and I’ve kent fer a little while… but I wanted tae be sure before I told ye.”
He stared at her, as if trying to take it in, the truth and the wonder of it, and then, all at once, his expression broke into light.
“Davina,” he breathed in a voice full of awe. “Truly?”
She nodded again, smiling through her tears. “Truly.”
Arran let out a breath that turned into a laugh, rough with disbelief and joy all at once. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest.
“Ye’ve given me everything,” he murmured against her hair. “Everything I never thought I’d have, everything I never thought I would ever deserve.”
She caressed his cheek. “Ye make it sound as though I did this alone.”
He drew back just enough to look at her, with his grin boyish and wide. “Ye’ve nae idea how happy ye’ve made me, Davina.”
“Perhaps a little idea,” she teased softly.
He kissed her then all over her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, over and over, as laughter mingled with the kisses.
“A bairn,” he said between them, wonder threading through every word. “Our bairn.”
“Our bairn,” she echoed, resting her forehead against his.
Arran wrapped his arms around her again, as though he could keep the whole world from ever touching her.
“Ye realize, of course, this changes everything,” he suddenly told her.
“Oh, does it?” she teased gently.
“Aye.” His eyes gleamed. “If it’s a lad, I’ll teach him tae ride afore he can walk. And tae wield a sword… properly, mind ye, nae swinging it about like Bruce daes when he’s showing off.”
Davina bit her lip to hide her smile. “Ye’ll have him training afore he’s out of the cradle, will ye nae?”
“Maybe nae that soon,” Arran said, pretending to think. “But soon enough. He’ll learn honor, courage… and the value of keeping his word. I’ll make him a man worthy of the Highlands.”
Her heart warmed as she listened to the pride and tenderness in his voice, the dream taking shape right there between them.
“And if it’s a lass?” she asked tenderly.
He looked at her, and the corners of his mouth curved into an even gentler smile. “Ah, if it’s a lass…” He paused, glancing toward the canopy of leaves above them as though picturing it. “Then heaven help anyone who tries tae tell her what she can or cannae dae.”
Davina laughed, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.
Arran went on. “I’ll teach her tae ride, too, though she’ll likely outrun me before long. And she’ll ken her mind, our lass. Fierce as her mother, clever as her uncle, and impossible tae argue with.”
Davina felt her eyes sting again. “Ye’ll spoil her terribly.”
“Aye,” he admitted with a grin. “And gladly. I’d give her everything the world has tae offer… and then tell her nae tae settle for any man who couldnae see she deserved it.”
She couldn’t speak for a moment. Her heart was too full, and her throat too tight with feeling.
Arran must have noticed, because he reached up to her cheek, smiling softly. “What are ye thinking, love?”
“That I’ve never loved ye more than I dae right now,” she whispered.
Their gazes locked, and for a moment, no words were needed. Then, he kissed her again, with his hand resting over hers where it lay against her belly. Their future felt close enough to touch. It was fragile, but so bright and full of promise.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers. “Lad or lass,” he murmured, “they’ll ken what love looks like, because they’ll see it every day.”
Davina smiled through her tears, her voice no more than a whisper. “Aye. They will.”
And so, beneath the quiet majesty of the Highlands, they found what neither battle nor loss could steal: peace, love, and the promise of forever.
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.
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…
Don’t miss your link for the whole book at the end of the preview.
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.
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.
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…
The words crashed through the great hall of Castle MacAlpin like thunder, making Isla’s teacup rattle against its saucer. She set it down with deliberate care, her amber eyes never leaving her father’s crinkled face as he stood with his back to her, staring out at the grey morning mist that clung to their lands like Highland ghosts.
“Faither—”
“I said nay, Isla.” Laird Alistair MacAlpin turned from the window, his silver-streaked hair catching the pale light as his blue eyes—so like her sister Isolde’s—fixed on her with the kind of paternal authority that had kept their clan together through years of political upheaval. “The Highland Summit at Dun Brae is nay place fer a young woman.”
Isla rose from her chair with the fluid grace that had always marked her as different from her more conventional sisters, her auburn hair catching fire in the morning light. Dressed simply in deep green wool, there was something about her that commanded attention—the way she held herself, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the fierce intelligence that blazed in her eyes.
“I’m three and twenty, Faither. Hardly a child who needs protection from Highland politics.”
“Ye’re me youngest daughter,” Alistair replied, his voice carrying the weight of a man who’d watched centuries of MacAlpin blood defend these lands. “And these are dangerous times. The other clans—”
“Are threatened by our success,” Isla interrupted, moving toward him. “Which is exactly why ye need someone there who understands what we’ve accomplished and can defend it properly.”
“I can defend our clan’s honor meself.”
“Why alone?” The challenge in her voice made Alistair’s jaw tighten. “When did ye last face down a room full of Highland lairds who think the MacAlpins have grown too powerful fer our own good?”
She stepped closer, her hands clasped behind her back in a gesture that made her look deceptively demure. But Alistair knew his daughter too well to be fooled by appearances.
“I’ve been managing our household accounts fer two years,” she continued, her voice gaining strength with each word. “I ken exactly how much wealth Isolde’s and Rhona’s marriages have brought us. I understand the political implications better than anyone.”
“Understanding politics and surviving them are two different things entirely.”
“Are they?” Isla’s laugh held no humor. “Because it seems tae me that surviving is exactly what our family has been daeing. What I’ve been helping us dae while me sisters found love and happiness in their marriages.”
The reminder of her unmarried state hung between them like smoke from a funeral pyre. At three and twenty, Isla MacAlpin could be considered well past the age when most Highland daughters were wed and settled. But every suitor who’d come calling had fled after encountering her razor-sharp wit and complete disinterest in being any man’s ornamental wife.
“This isnnae about marriage prospects,” Alistair said carefully, though they both knew it was partially about exactly that.
“Good. Because I have nay interest in being paraded before potential husbands like a prize cow at market.” Isla moved to the window, her gaze taking in the rolling hills that had been MacAlpin land for longer than memory. “I want tae go because I can be useful. Because someone needs tae watch our interests while ye’re focused on the formal proceedings.”
“Ye mean spy.”
“I mean listen.” She turned back to face him, and Alistair was struck by how much she resembled her late mother in that moment—the same fierce determination, the same refusal to be dismissed or ignored. “Dae ye truly believe every conversation that matters will happen in the formal sessions? Or will the real decisions be made in quiet corners and private chambers where women are assumed tae be decorative rather than dangerous?”
The logic was sound, and they both knew it. Highland politics had always been conducted in shadows as much as sunlight, and a clever woman who knew how to listen could learn things that escaped the notice of men focused on formal proceedings.
“The other lairds willnae appreciate a woman involving herself in their business.”
“The other lairds can go tae hell,” Isla replied with cheerful venom. “I’m nae asking fer their appreciation. I’m asking fer the chance tae protect what we’ve built.”
Alistair studied his youngest daughter’s face, noting the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her hands had clenched into fists at her sides. She’d inherited the MacAlpin pride in full measure, along with a keen intelligence that made her dangerous in ways most people never recognized.
“If I agreed—and I’m nae saying I am—there would be conditions.”
“Such as?”
“Ye’d stay close tae me at all times. Nae wandering off on yer own tae investigate whatever catches yer curiosity.”
Isla’s eyes lit up with triumph, though she tried to hide it behind a mask of solemn agreement. “Of course, Faither.”
“And ye’d dress appropriately. Nae of this nonsense about wearing men’s clothing or disguising yerself as a servant.”
“I would never—” She stopped at his raised eyebrow. “I’ll dress as befits a Highland lady.”
“And ye’ll remember that ye’re there as me daughter, nae as some sort of clan diplomat with independent authority.”
“Naturally.”
Alistair sighed, recognizing defeat when it stared him in the face with amber eyes and his late wife’s stubborn smile. “Against me better judgment, then. But Isla—” His voice carried a warning that made her straighten. “These are dangerous times. The other clans fear our success, and fear makes men dae desperate things. If I tell ye tae stay back, ye stay back. If I tell ye tae leave, ye leave. Nay arguments, nay debates, nay stubbornness. Understood?”
“Understood,” she agreed, though her fingers were already itching to explore every shadowed corner and hidden passage Dun Brae had to offer.
***
Two days later, Isla stood in her chamber surveying the organized chaos of packing for a journey that could change everything. Gowns lay across her bed in careful arrangement—the blue silk that brought out her eyes, the deep green wool that matched her father’s colors, the silver-embroidered formal dress that had been her mother’s and made her look like Highland royalty.
“Me lady,” said Maisey, her maid, appearing in the doorway with an armful of traveling cloaks. “Yer faither says we leave at first light tomorrow.”
“Aye.” Isla held up two different gowns, trying to decide which would make the better first impression on Highland lairds who already viewed her family with suspicion. “What dae ye think, Maisey? The blue silk or the green wool fer the opening ceremonies?”
“The blue, me lady. It makes yer eyes shine, and ye’ll want every advantage when facing down a hall full of suspicious Highland lairds.”
The observation was shrewd—Maisey had served the MacAlpin women for twenty years and understood the subtle warfare of court appearances better than most generals understood battlefield strategy.
“The blue it is, then.” Isla set the gown aside and moved to her writing desk, where maps of Dun Brae lay spread across the polished wood. “Tell me, what dae ye ken about the castle’s layout?”
“Me lady?”
“Dun Brae. Have ye ever been there? Heard stories about its construction, its hidden passages, its… unconventional features?”
Maisey’s eyes sharpened with understanding. “Planning tae dae some exploring, are we?”
“Planning tae be prepared,” Isla corrected, though her smile was pure mischief. “Knowledge is power, and I intend tae be very powerful indeed.”
“The castle’s old,” Maisey said thoughtfully, settling into the chair across from the desk. “Built during the time of Robert the Bruce, with all the defensive features ye’d expect. But I’ve heard tell it has more passages and hidden doors than most—built fer a time when Highland politics were even more dangerous than they are now.”
“Interesting.” Isla’s finger traced the castle’s outline on the map. “And the great hall? The private chambers? The areas where important conversations might take place away from prying eyes?”
“The great hall’s traditional—high table, long benches, galleries fer observers. But the real power in any Highland castle lies in the private chambers and council rooms. Places where lairds can speak freely without worrying about every word being repeated.”
“Places a clever lass might overhear things she wasnae meant tae ken?”
Maisey’s smile was answer enough.
They spent the next hour poring over the maps Maisey drew from her memory. She’d escorted MacAlpin lairds to the Summit on more than one occasion, and as a servant, she needed to know shortcuts to move around the castle quickly and quietly.
Isla memorized every corridor and chamber, every potential hiding place and vantage point. By the time the afternoon sun slanted through her windows, she could have navigated Dun Brae blindfolded.
“Me lady,” Maisey said eventually, “ye dae realize yer faither will have yer hide if he discovers ye’ve been planning tae spy on the proceedings?”
“Only if he discovers it,” Isla replied with the confidence of a woman who’d been successfully managing Highland men her entire life. “And I have nay intention of being caught.”
A sharp knock at her chamber door interrupted their planning. “Come,” Isla called, hastily folding the maps and sliding them beneath other papers.
Her father entered, his weathered face holding the kind of worry that had become his constant companion since before their clan’s fortunes had begun to rise, when they had been struggling to get through the winters. “Isla, we need tae talk.”
“About what?” Though she suspected she already knew.
“About what ye might face at Dun Brae.” Alistair settled into the chair Maisey had vacated after bobbing a curtsy and disappearing into the corridor. “Ye ken that the other clans arenae just suspicious of our success—they’re actively resentful. They see Isolde’s marriage tae Laird MacCraith and Rhona’s tae Laird Wallace as calculated political maneuvering.”
“Because they are in a way?” Isla raised an eyebrow. “Both marriages strengthened our alliances considerably.”
“Aye, but they were also love matches. Yer sisters found happiness with men who happened tae bring political advantages.” Alistair’s expression softened slightly. “The other lairds cannae accept that we might have been fortunate enough tae find both love and advantage in the same arrangements.”
“So they assume ye’re a scheming manipulator who uses his daughters as political pawns.”
“Exactly. Which means we’ll be walking intae a gathering of men who already view our family with hostility.” His blue eyes searched her face. “Are ye certain ye want tae expose yerself tae that kind of scrutiny?”
Isla’s smile was sharp as Highland steel. “Faither, I’ve been dealing with hostile Highland men me entire life. At least at Dun Brae, they’ll be forced tae be polite about it.”
“Will they? Because I’m nae so certain. Some of these lairds have daughters of their own—daughters who lost marriage prospects when yer sisters found such advantageous matches. They may see ye as a chance fer revenge.”
The warning struck her like ice water, but Isla’s spine straightened with the stubborn pride that had defined her since childhood. “Let them try. I didnae survive three and twenty years of Highland politics by wilting under pressure.”
“Nay,” Alistair agreed, pride creeping into his voice despite his concerns. “Ye’re definitely nae some helpless flower. But pride can be a dangerous thing when it’s wounded. And we’ve wounded quite a few prideful men with our recent success.”
“Then we’ll just have tae make sure we’re prepared fer whatever they throw at us.” Isla leaned forward. Her eyes burned bright with determination. “Ye’ll be trapped in formal ceremonies, Faither, playing by their rules and their timetables. But I can move through spaces they think are harmless. I can listen at doorways, observe alliances forming in quiet corners and catch the conversations that happen when men think nay one important is watching.”
“And if ye’re wrong? If they see through whatever disguise or deception ye’re planning? If they realize ye’re deliberately gathering information?”
“Then I’ll face the consequences,” she said simply. “But I willnae sit safely at home while our family’s future is decided by men who resent our success.”
For a heartbeat, Alistair saw not his youngest daughter but his beloved wife again—the same amber fire in her eyes, the same lift of chin that meant arguments were futile. Too many years in the grave, and still her spirit lived on in this fierce lass who refused to be sheltered from the harsh realities of Highland politics.
“Very well,” he said finally, falling for his daughter’s witty schemes once again. “But Isla—promise me ye’ll be careful. Promise me ye’ll nae take unnecessary risks just tae prove ye can.”
“I promise tae be as careful as circumstances allow,” she replied, which they both knew was hardly a promise at all.
Loved this bonus chapter? Keep the adventure alive—continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
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.
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…
The screams that tore from the eastern tower of Castle Dunvegan could have wakened the dead—and very nearly sent Connall MacLaren to join them.
He paced the corridor outside their chamber like a caged wolf, his boots wearing grooves in stones that had witnessed three centuries of MacLaren births. Every cry from within made his powerful frame flinch as if struck by enemy steel, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides with helpless fury.
“Easy, lad,” Bruce said quietly from where he leaned against the stone wall, his face creased with understanding. “She’s stronger than granite, that one. She’ll come through this.”
“She’s been laboring since dawn,” Connall replied through gritted teeth, his eyes fixed on the heavy oak door that might as well have been the gates of hell for all it kept him from the woman he loved. “It’s past midnight now. Something’s wrong.”
Another scream echoed through the door—raw, primal, utterly devastating. Connall’s control snapped like a bowstring.
“That’s it,” he snarled, starting toward the door. “I’m going in there.”
Bruce caught his arm with surprising strength. “Ye’ll dae nae such thing. Fiona kens her business, and Isla’s got more fight in her than three Highland warriors. Leave them be.”
“Leave them be?” Connall spun toward his oldest friend, his eyes blazing with the kind of fury that had carved his reputation in blood and steel. “That’s me wife in there, Bruce. Me child she’s trying tae bring intae this world. I willnae stand out here like some useless—”
“Husband,” Bruce finished firmly. “Which is exactly what ye are right now. The most useless creature in Scotland when it comes tae birthing bairns.”
From within the chamber came Fiona’s voice, steady and commanding despite the circumstances. “That’s it, me lady. I can see the head. One more push—”
Isla’s response was a roar that would have impressed a wildcat, followed by the sudden, blessed silence that could mean only one thing.
Then came the sound that transformed Connall’s world—the thin, outraged wail of a newborn taking her first breath of Highland air.
“A daughter!” Fiona’s voice carried through the door, rich with triumph and relief. “A bonny Highland lass with her mother’s lungs and her father’s temper, by the sound of her!”
Connall’s knees nearly buckled with relief so profound it felt like drowning in reverse. A daughter. Alive.
The door opened to reveal Fiona’s smiling face, her hands and apron bloodstained but her expression radiant. “Come and meet yer daughter, me laird. Though mind ye wash first—I’ll nae have dirty hands touching me newest patient.”
The basin of warm water might as well have been an ocean for all the attention Connall paid to washing. His eyes were fixed on the bed where Isla lay propped against white pillows, her auburn hair dark with sweat but her amber eyes blazing with the same fierce pride that had first caught his attention in a moonlit garden.
In her arms lay the most perfect creature he’d ever seen—tiny and red-faced and utterly, completely his.
“Look what we made,” Isla said softly, her voice hoarse from nine hours of labor but warm with wonder. “Look at her, Connall. She’s perfect.”
He moved toward the bed as if walking through mist, every step careful and reverent. The baby—his daughter—had stopped crying and lay sleeping in her mother’s arms, one tiny fist curled against Isla’s breast.
“She’s beautiful,” he breathed, sinking onto the edge of the bed with infinite care. “Just like her maither.”
“She’s got yer nose,” Isla observed with a tired smile. “And yer chin. Poor lass—she’ll be ordering grown men about before she can properly walk.”
The baby stirred at the sound of their voices, and Connall felt his heart stop.
“Would ye like tae hold her?” Isla asked, though she made no move to release their daughter.
“I—” He stopped, his throat suddenly tight with an emotion too large for words. “What if I drop her? What if—”
“Ye willnae drop her,” Isla said with absolute certainty. “Ye’re the man who caught me when I thought I’d fall. Ye’ll catch her too.”
With infinite care, she transferred their daughter into his arms. The baby weighed nothing—less than his claymore—but she was warm and alive and utterly dependent on him for everything.
“Hello, little one,” he whispered, his voice rough with wonder. “I’m yer faither.”
As if responding to his words, the baby’s tiny hand found his finger. She gripped it with surprising strength. The gesture flooded his chest with a love so fierce it nearly brought him to his knees.
“What shall we call her?” Isla asked, her hand finding his where it supported their daughter’s head.
“Eden,” Connall said without hesitation. “Like the garden where we first spoke of children. Where we first dared tae hope fer this.”
Isla’s smile was radiant as morning sun over water. “Eden MacLaren. It suits her.”
“Aye,” he agreed, his thumb tracing across their daughter’s impossibly soft cheek. “Our little Eden.”
***
Three hours had passed since Eden’s arrival, and Castle Dunvegan hummed with the quiet satisfaction of a fortress welcoming its newest heir. Servants moved through corridors with careful steps, their voices pitched low so as not to disturb the lady and her baby. In the kitchens, cook had already begun preparing the traditional feast that would celebrate the Highland birth—honeyed oatcakes and strong ale for the men, rich broth and sweet wine for the new mother.
Isla lay propped against fresh pillows, clean and comfortable now that Fiona had worked her healing magic. Eden slept in her arms, her tiny chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm that had become the most beautiful sound in Connall’s world.
“I cannae stop looking at her,” he admitted from his chair beside the bed, his voice carrying the wonder of a man witnessing miracles. “Every time I think I’ve memorized her face, she moves or makes some wee sound, and I discover something new.”
“She’s perfect,” Isla murmured, her finger tracing the delicate curve of their daughter’s ear. “Ten fingers, ten toes, and already showing signs of the MacLaren stubbornness.”
“How can ye tell?”
“The way she grips me finger when she feeds. Like she’s afraid I might try tae escape.” Isla’s laugh was soft and tired but utterly content. “She’s going tae be trouble, this one.”
“The best kind of trouble,” Connall agreed, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to Isla’s temple. “The kind that makes life worth living.”
The chamber door opened quietly to admit Bruce, his lips turned up in a smile. In his hands he carried a small wooden box, its surface worn smooth by countless years.
“I brought something,” he said, settling into the chair on the other side of the bed. “Something that belonged tae yer faither, Connall. And his faither before him.”
As the box opened, it showed a silver christening cup worn smooth by countless hands. The MacLaren crest caught the light, while around its rim ran an unbroken chain of names, each one a link in three centuries of family legacy, etched in flowing script.
“Fer when she’s ready for her first blessing,” Bruce explained, his voice thick with emotion. “When she takes her place in the long line of MacLaren pride.”
Connall accepted the cup with hands that trembled slightly, his eyes taking in the names of ancestors who’d held this same vessel, who’d welcomed their own children into a world of Highland honor and ancient responsibility.
“Thank ye,” he said quietly. “She’ll treasure this.”
“Aye, well,” Bruce replied, his gruff manner not quite hiding his pleasure. “Every Highland lass needs tae ken where she comes from. Especially one born tae such parents.”
Eden stirred in her mother’s arms, making a soft sound that might have been protest or contentment. Her eyes opened briefly—those remarkable depths that were unmistakably her father’s legacy—before drifting closed again.
“She’s already got opinions,” Isla observed with amusement. “I suspect we’re in fer an interesting eighteen years.”
“At least,” Connall agreed, though his voice carried nothing but pride, “our daughter will be a force tae reckon with.”
“Like her maither,” Bruce added with a meaningful glance at Isla. “The Highlands havenae seen the last of MacAlpin fire, I’m thinking.”
“MacLaren fire now,” Isla corrected gently, her amber eyes soft with contentment. “She’s ours, Bruce. Completely and ferever.”
The old warrior’s smile was answer enough.
***
The un was shining over the Highland hills when Eden MacLaren opened her eyes once again and decided the world was worth exploring. Her tiny cries filled the chamber with the kind of urgent demand that brooked no argument—she was hungry, and she wanted everyone to know it immediately.
“She’s got excellent lungs,” Fiona observed with professional approval as she helped Isla adjust the baby’s position. “Strong and healthy, just as she should be.”
Fascinated, Connall observed his wife initiating their daughter into the most ancient of rituals. His throat tightened with indescribable feeling as he witnessed life’s endless cycle—the future literally taking shape before his eyes, breath by precious breath.
“Look at her,” Isla murmured, her voice soft with wonder. “She kens exactly what she wants and she’s determined tae get it.”
“A true Highland lass,” Connall agreed, his finger stroking Eden’s tiny fist where it pressed against Isla’s breast. “Born with her maither’s will and her faither’s… what would ye call it?”
“Determination?” Isla suggested with a tired but mischievous smile.
“I was going tae say confidence,” he replied with mock dignity. “Highland confidence, earned through generations of surviving impossible odds.”
“We’ll see what she earns fer herself,” Isla said, pressing a gentle kiss to Eden’s downy head. “Though I suspect she’ll surprise us both.”
Eden finished feeding and promptly fell asleep again, her small body relaxed and satisfied. Connall took her carefully, marveling again at how something so tiny could contain so much possibility.
“Nae even twelve hours old and already she’s got us wrapped around her finger,” he observed, settling back into his chair with their daughter cradled against his chest.
“It’s genetic,” Isla replied, her eyes drifting closed as exhaustion finally claimed her. “MacLaren men have always been susceptible tae Highland lasses with strong opinions.”
“Is that right?” Connall’s voice was soft, mindful of both his tired wife and daughter. “And how would ye ken such a thing?”
“Because,” Isla murmured, already half-asleep, “I married one.”
The only sounds that broke the peaceful silence were the soft sounds of breathing and the calls of gulls from the rocks below. The stone walls were gold due to the sunshine coming through the tall windows. Beyond the glass, the restored gardens were full of white roses and purple heather.
Connall sat perfectly still, his daughter sleeping against his heart, his wife resting after the greatest battle of her life. The scars on his body—reminders of enemies defeated and prices paid—seemed lighter somehow, as if Eden’s arrival had healed wounds he hadn’t known still bled.
“Eden MacLaren,” he whispered to the sleeping child, his voice carrying promises and possibilities. “Born tae castle walls that have stood fer centuries, tae parents who love ye more than Highland stone loves Highland soil. What kind of woman will ye become, I wonder?”
Eden stirred slightly but didn’t wake, her tiny fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt as if already claiming him as her own.
Outside, Castle Dunvegan continued its ancient watch over sea and sky, its walls now protecting something more precious than gold or land or political alliance. They protected the future—one perfect daughter who would grow up knowing she was loved absolutely, protected fiercely, and destined for whatever greatness she chose to claim.
The war was over. The garden was blooming. Now, a new chapter was starting with the soft breathing of a sleeping child and the endless promise of tomorrow.
Bards would one day sing of the Highland siege that forged MacLaren legend—of love defeating politics, courage defying the impossible, and two souls who crossed the minefield of Highland honor to claim each other as home.
But the greatest story and the one that mattered most was just beginning. It would be written in children’s laughter echoing through ancient halls, in small hands learning to hold steel, in storm-green eyes and auburn hair carrying forward the best of both their bloodlines.
Eden MacLaren slept peacefully in her father’s arms, surrounded by walls that would protect her and love that would sustain her and the endless Highland sky that would witness whatever legends she chose to write with her own fierce heart.
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.
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…
Don’t miss your link for the whole book at the end of the preview.
Chapter One
1665, Dun Brae
“Where’d the little rat go?” the guard snarled, his torch casting dancing shadows across the timber-framed walls as he searched for the intruder who’d been sneaking through the castle’s restricted passages since before the cock’s crow.
Pain exploded through Isla’s chest where his boot had found its mark moments before. She pressed her back against the cold stone, clutching the stolen guard’s cloak to her chest. The coarse wool scratched against her skin like thistles, but it was her only disguise—her only hope of reaching the council chamber where the Highland lords were deciding her clan’s fate.
It was true that her father was there to speak for the MacAlpins, but those past months had shown how quickly words could be twisted, how easily a good man’s intentions could be manipulated by greedier man.
Her clan had finally clawed its way back to prosperity after years of near-ruin, and she wouldn’t let their future be battered away in some smoky chamber while she sat meekly by the hearth. She had to hear their schemes with her own ears—to know exactly what threats and promises were being made—so she could find a way to protect what her people had fought so hard to rebuild.
Breathe, Isla. Breathe and think.
The stolen cloak hung loose on her small frame, hiding her feminine curves beneath its shapeless folds. She’d taken it from a sleeping guard just after dawn, along with his leather cap which now concealed her telltale auburn hair. Her heart still raced from that first theft—creeping into the guards’ quarters like a common criminal, holding her breath as the man snored off his ale-soaked dreams.
The guard’s footsteps grew closer, his breathing heavy with exertion and the lingering effects of last night’s revelries. She could hear him muttering under his breath, cursing whoever had assigned him to patrol the castle’s maze-like corridors instead of enjoying the Highland Summit’s festivities in the great hall.
“Should be down there with a cup of ale and a warm serving wench,” he grumbled, his torch wavering as he stumbled slightly. “Nae chasing shadows through these cursed passages like some common watchman.”
A rat scurried across her foot, and Isla bit back a gasp that would’ve given away her position. The tiny sound was enough to make the guard pause, his torch turning in her direction like a hunting hound catching a scent.
“I ken ye’re there,” he called out, his voice slurred but determined. “Come out now, and I might not break every bone in yer worthless body. Make me chase ye, and I’ll take yer hide as payment fer me trouble.”
Nae bloody likely.
Isla’s fingers found the dagger tucked into her boot, drawing the familiar weight of steel into her palm. The blade had been a gift from her father years ago—meant for cutting threads and opening letters, not defending herself against drunken guards.
The guard rounded the pillar with his torch raised high, expecting to find a cowering servant or perhaps a thieving beggar. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with a hooded figure whose amber eyes blazed with defiance. He dropped the torch in surprise.
“What in God’s name—” he began, but his words were cut off as heavy footsteps announced the arrival of another guard.
“Problems, Alasdair?” The second guard was older, more sober, and infinitely more dangerous. His hand rested casually on his sword hilt as he studied the scene with calculating eyes—a veteran warrior’s gaze.
Isla grabbed the fallen torch and hurled it at the tapestry behind her. The ancient fabric caught fire immediately, flames racing up the wool and filling the passage with thick, choking smoke that turned everything into a hellish maze of orange light and shifting darkness.
In the confusion, with both guards coughing and cursing as smoke stung their eyes, she managed to slip past them like a ghost. Their shouts of alarm echoed behind her as she sprinted toward the council chamber, the smoke slowing their pursuit—but she had only minutes before the entire castle was searching for her.
Her lungs burned from the smoke, but she pushed forward through sheer determination. As she approached the council chamber, she heard voices from a side passage—urgent whispers that made her blood run cold.
“…everything is in place,” one was saying, his voice barely audible. “MacAlpin will be dead before the hour is out. MacDara’s blade is already positioned.”
Isla pressed herself against the stone wall, her heart hammering. They were planning to murder her father.
Heart pounding with urgency, she crept toward the main council chamber. She found her hiding place behind a massive tapestry depicting Robert the Bruce’s victory at Bannockburn, pressing herself against the wall as the debate raged beyond. The ancient weaving was thick enough to muffle any sounds she might make, but thin enough that she could see through gaps in the fabric.
Please let me be wrong about this. Please let me fears be naething more than imagination.
Through the largest gap in the heavy fabric, she could see the assembled lairds seated around the massive oak table that dominated Dun Brae’s council chamber. The table itself was carved from a single enormous tree, its surface polished by centuries of use. Clan banners hung from the vaulted ceiling, their colors muted by age and flickering torchlight.
Her father sat toward the middle of the table, shoulders rigid with tension, his weathered face like granite as he listened to the political maneuvering swirling around him.
“The MacPherson uprising has shown us the dangers of allowing rebellious clans tae fester unchecked,” Laird Cameron was saying, his voice carrying the weight of his sixty years and twice as many battles. “We must present a united front against outside threats, or we’ll face the same chaos that nearly tore Ireland apart.”
“Unity is well and good,” growled Laird MacDougall from across the table, his scarred face twisted with old resentment. “But some clans have grown too powerful fer their own good. The MacAlpins, fer instance, now have their daughters wed tae two of the most powerful clans in their territory—including the Wallaces, who were their sworn enemies once. How dae we ken MacAlpin isnae using these marriages tae seize control of all the Highland lands in his region?”
Her father’s jaw tightened at the implied insult, but his voice remained steady. “The MacAlpins have bled fer these lands longer than some clans have existed, MacDougall. Me daughters followed their hearts in choosing their husbands, and fortune smiled upon us that love created bonds between clans that might otherwise have remained divided.”
“Aye, but enemies have a way of becoming friends when it suits their purposes,” MacDougall shot back. “What’s tae stop ye from using these new family ties tae seize control of all the Highland territories? Yer daughters have positioned the MacAlpins at the center of a web of alliances that could strangle the rest of us. How dae we ken ye’re nae planning tae become overlord of the entire region?”
As her father’s voice rose in defense of his clan’s honor, Isla’s blood ran cold remembering the whispered words she’d overheard in the passages.
MacAlpin will be dead before the hour is out, the blade is already positioned.
She scanned the chamber frantically, looking for any sign of the threat she knew was coming. But the debate continued, the lords absorbed in their political maneuvering, completely unaware that death was stalking among them.
The debate raged on for what felt like hours, but Isla’s attention kept drifting to the shadows, searching for any sign of the assassin with his positioned blade. Every servant who entered made her heart race, every movement in her peripheral vision sent alarm through her veins.
The hour was nearly up.
Finally, as the lords began to disperse with plans to reconvene the following morning, Isla slipped away from her hiding place. She had to reach her father before he returned to his chamber alone, but the corridors seemed endless, and by the time she reached the guest quarters, she could hear the sound of struggle from behind her father’s door. Steel rang against steel, followed by a crash of overturned furniture.
She burst through the door to find her father locked in deadly combat with a masked assassin, both men bleeding from multiple wounds. Her father, exhausted from the long day of political maneuvering, was clearly losing ground.
“Faither!” she cried, but the assassin used her distraction to press his advantage, driving her father back against the stone wall.
Strong hands grabbed her from behind before she could find another weapon, iron-strong fingers wrapping around her throat. She felt the cold kiss of steel against her neck as an assassin’s blade pressed against her pulse.
“Stop fighting, or the bitch dies!” the assassin snarled, his voice carrying across the chaos.
The clashing of steel slowed as heads turned toward them. Isla met her father’s horrified eyes across the blood-soaked chamber, seeing her own death reflected in his anguished expression. The assassin’s grip tightened around her throat, and she felt the blade bite deeper into her skin.
The killer raised his blade for the killing blow.
So this is how it ends.
Chapter Two
Steel sang through the air with deadly precision, the blade sweeping so close to Isla’s throat she felt the wind of its passage. From the shadows near the chamber’s entrance, a massive figure exploded into motion—a warrior she hadn’t even noticed entering during the chaos. The assassin’s weapon clattered across the stone floor as a Highland claymore knocked it from his grip with bone-jarring force.
The man towered above her fallen attacker, his massive frame silhouetted against the firelight. Ash-brown hair caught the dancing flames as he moved with fluid, lethal grace, his sword cutting through another assassin’s guard with controlled fury. His emerald eyes showed no emotion—cold, calculating, efficient.
Saints, he’s magnificent.
Even in the midst of mortal combat, Isla found herself utterly transfixed by this stranger who fought like death incarnate.
The stranger’s blade found another target, but more assassins poured through the chamber doorway—this had been planned as more than a simple murder.
“Get down!” the stranger roared as crossbow bolts whistled through the air.
Isla dove behind an overturned table, her hand finding the small dagger at her boot again. When an assassin rounded her makeshift shelter, she struck without thinking, the blade finding the gap between his ribs just as her father had taught her years ago. The man’s surprised grunt turned into a death rattle.
But there were too many of them. Steel rang against steel as the stranger battled three men at once, his claymore weaving deadly patterns through the air. No wasted motion, no unnecessary flourishes. He fought like some ancient god of war, but there was something almost beautiful in the deadly efficiency.
“Behind ye!” Isla screamed as another assassin appeared from the corridor.
The warning saved the stranger’s life, but now she was exposed. A masked killer lunged toward her, his blade aimed at her heart. She rolled desperately, feeling steel slice through her sleeve and bite into her arm. Pain blazed white-hot, but she kept moving, kept fighting.
The stranger’s roar of fury echoed through the chamber as he saw her blood. His next strike nearly cleaved his opponent in half.
Within minutes, the last assassin lay dead on the chamber floor. The stranger stepped back, already scanning for additional threats, his attention apparently focused on practical matters, though his eyes lingered briefly on the blood seeping through Isla’s torn sleeve.
Silence fell over the chamber, broken only by labored breathing. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air.
Isla tried to stand and immediately swayed, her vision blurring. The excitement, terror—and blood loss—had taken their toll, and she could feel exhaustion creeping through her limbs.
Without a word, the stranger caught her arm—not gently, but with the efficient grip of someone preventing a tactical disadvantage. His touch was impersonal, businesslike, though she noticed his fingers carefully avoided her wound.
“Ye’re shaken,” he stated flatly, his voice sounding like distant thunder, the deep timbre making something flutter unexpectedly in her chest, already moving her toward a chair. His eyes flicked to the blood seeping through her torn sleeve. “And wounded.” Not a question, not concern—just fact.
Isla found herself studying his profile as he checked her wound. His face was lined from years of war, jaw tight with discipline. There was a thin scar along his left temple, and his nose had been broken at least once. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as he examined the gash on her arm, though he worked with the same cold efficiency he’d shown in battle.
What was she doing, focusing on this man when her father had just almost been killed? It was hardly the time to be noticing how his hands moved with practiced skill, or how the firelight caught the gold flecks in his eyes.
“I need tae tend tae me faither,” Isla protested, trying to move toward where Alistair was slumped against the wall, pressing a cloth to a wound on his arm.
The stranger stepped smoothly into her path, blocking her progress. “He’s stable. Ye’re nae.”
“I can judge me own condition, thank ye very much,” she snapped, irritated by his presumptuous manner.
He didn’t look impressed by her defiance. “Blood loss and shock make hands shake. Ye’d dae more harm than good right now.”
Despite her frustration, Isla felt an unexpected flutter as his calloused fingers briefly checked her pulse at her wrist—clinical, detached. But there was something about the controlled strength in his touch that made her breath catch.
Sweet Mary, what is wrong with me? The man treats me like a broken piece of equipment, yet his touch sets me skin ablaze.
He moved past her to examine her father’s wounds with practiced skill, his touch impersonal as a battlefield surgeon’s. When he finished, her father thanked him for his intervention and he stepped back immediately, already turning his attention elsewhere.
“What’s yer name?” Isla asked, irritated by his dismissive manner.
“MacLaren.” He was scanning the room, assessing damage, counting bodies.
“Laird Connall MacLaren,” her father supplied, approaching with obvious relief despite his wound. “I owe ye a debt—”
“Nay debt.” Connall’s voice was flat, final. He moved past them both to examine the fallen assassins more thoroughly, kneeling to check their weapons and clothing for identifying marks.
Isla watched him work, growing more irritated by the moment.
“Well,” she said, wincing slightly once he started to clean the cut on her arm, “We are grateful fer yer timely intervention,” she offered and then added under her breath, “though ye work like a battlefield surgeon—all efficiency and nay bedside manner.”
Connall looked up, his green eyes moving briefly to Isla’s face. For one moment, she thought she might have his attention, might have earned some reaction.
Finally. Maybe now he’ll—
But his gaze moved on just as quickly, dismissing her as thoroughly as if she’d never spoken.
Or nae. Sweet Virgin, it’s like I’m invisible.
He turned to Alistair instead.
“This was coordinated,” he said simply to her father. “Professional. There will be others.”
“We’ll need tae increase security,” Alistair replied. “But first—”
“I’ll handle security,” Connall cut him off, standing and wiping his blade clean. “Me men will coordinate with yers. The immediate threat is contained.”
He began walking toward the door, clearly considering his business there finished.
“Laird MacLaren, wait,” Alistair called after him.
Connall paused but didn’t turn around.
“Where are ye going?”
“Tae check the perimeter.” His tone suggested this should have been obvious. “Unless ye prefer tae wait fer tae next attack.”
Without another word, he left. The chamber door closed behind him with a resonant thud that seemed to echo Isla’s growing frustration.
It was infuriating.
Isla immediately moved to help her father, tearing clean strips from a hand towel nearby to properly bind his wounds. As she worked, her thoughts circled back to the man who’d just walked out. Connall MacLaren. She’d heard the name whispered in certain circles—a laird known for his silence, his sword, and absolute discipline.
“Hold still, Faither,” she murmured, focusing on the task at hand, even as her mind wandered to the way Connall moved with cold purpose, as if human connection were simply another inefficiency to be eliminated.
His indifference was more unsettling than outright hostility, and despite everything—the assassination attempt, her father’s narrow escape, the knowledge that more killers were likely hunting them—she found herself wondering what it would take to crack that stoic composure.
The thought should’ve been the least of her concerns. Instead, it lodged in her mind like a thorn, refusing to be ignored.
Outside, she could hear MacLaren’s voice giving crisp orders to the guards. Efficient. Practical.
Isla touched her wrist where his fingers had briefly checked her pulse. Most men would’ve used such contact as an excuse for lingering touches, meaningful looks, whispered words of concern.
But not him.
The chamber door opened with a creak, and Connall MacLaren stepped back inside. His green eyes swept the room with that same tactical assessment, taking in the now-secured space and her father’s bandaged wounds with apparent satisfaction. His gaze moved past Isla, focusing entirely on her father.
“Perimeter secured,” he announced to Alistair, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Additional guards posted. Nay further immediate threats detected.”
“Good,” Alistair replied with obvious relief. “I’ll be doubling me own guards as well, and I want two of me most trusted men assigned specifically tae Isla’s protection. We cannae leave her safety tae chance.”
Isla’s temper flared. Before she could stop herself, she stepped forward. “Perhaps if we hadn’t been so focused on political maneuvering, we might have noticed the threat under our very noses. These assassins didn’t just appear from thin air—someone let them in.”
Her father shot her a warning look, but Isla barely noticed. Her attention was fixed on Connall, waiting.
He looked at her then, really looked, for the first time since he’d saved their lives. Those stormy green eyes held her for a long moment, and she felt something shift in the air between them.
“Bold words,” he said quietly, his voice carrying just enough to reach her.
“Bold but true,” she shot back, lifting her chin. “Or dae ye disagree, Laird MacLaren?”
The corner of his mouth might have twitched—or perhaps it was a trick of the lamplight. “Boldness and wisdom arenae always the same thing, lass.”
“And what would ye ken about it?”
This time, there was definitely something in his eyes—amusement, perhaps, or challenge. “I notice more than ye might think.”
The simple statement sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. “I… thank ye,” she said quietly, her earlier anger deflating as the reality hit her. “Fer saving our lives. Fer noticing when it mattered most. I’m grateful, truly, even if I’m terrible at showing it.”
“Ye’re nae terrible at it,” Connall said, something shifting in his expression. “Just… unused tae needing rescue.”
“Aye, well I suppose I’ll need tae get better at accepting help,” she said with a rueful smile. “Though I doubt our paths will cross much once this crisis passes.”
Connall stepped closer, close enough that she could catch that scent of leather and steel that seemed to cling to him. When he spoke, his voice was low, meant for her ears alone.
“We shall see, lass,” he said with quiet intensity, his green eyes holding secrets she couldn’t begin to fathom. “We shall see.”
Connall paused at the door, his hand on the latch. Without turning around, he spoke over his shoulder. “Get some rest, Lady MacAlpin. Tomorrow will bring new challenges.”
As he stepped into the corridor, Isla followed him, her frustration finally boiling over.
“That’s it?” she asked, her voice sharp with frustration. “Ye save our lives, then walk away with naething more than pleasantries?”
Now alone in the corridor, he turned to face her fully. “What would ye have me say, lass? That ye’re bonny? That ye’ve got more fire than sense? That watching ye face down trained killers with naethin’ but a wee blade was…” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Ye dinnae need me words tae ken what ye are.”
Finally.
A crack in that armor.
“And what am I, exactly?” she pressed, stepping closer.
Now he did turn, and the look in his eyes made her pulse quicken. “Dangerous,” he said simply. “Tae yerself. Tae yer faither. Tae any man fool enough tae—” He cut himself off again, jaw tight.
“Tae what?” she demanded.
“Tae think he could tame ye.” The words came out rougher than he’d intended, she could tell. “Good night, Lady MacAlpin.”
That time when he left, he didn’t return.
Isla stood in the empty corridor for several long moments, her heart racing for entirely different reasons than before. Dangerous. He thought she was dangerous.
Finally, she gathered herself and returned to the chamber, closing the door softly behind her. Her father looked up from where he sat tending his wounds, his eyebrows raised in quiet question.
“Everything settled between ye and MacLaren?” Alistair asked mildly.
“Aye,” she said, though her voice sounded strange even to her own ears. “Everything’s… settled.”
She moved to help him with his bandages, but her thoughts remained fixed on those storm-green eyes and the words spoken in the shadows.
Well, Connall MacLaren, if ye think I’m dangerous now, just wait.
As she worked on his wounds, her father’s expression grew more serious. “Isla, we need tae discuss what happened tonight. These weren’t common thieves or opportunistic killers.”
“I ken,” she said quietly, focusing on the task at hand. “They were organized. Professional.”
“Aye. And that means this isnae over.” Alistair winced as she tightened a bandage. “We need tae be more careful. Both of us. Nay more wandering the corridors alone, nay more taking risks.”
“Faither—”
“Nay arguments, lass. Tonight proved that our enemies are willing tae strike at the heart of a Highland summit. There’s naewhere we can consider truly safe now.”
The gravity in his voice sobered her completely, pushing all thoughts of mysterious Highland lairds from her mind.
After helping her father settle for the night, Isla found herself drawn to the chamber window. Below in the moonlight courtyard, she could see Connall’s tall figure moving among the guards, his voice carrying faintly as he gave orders. Even from a distance, there was something commanding about his presence—the way the other men deferred to him, how he moved with that same controlled precision she’d witnessed in the battle.
Dangerous, she thought, remembering his words about her. Aye, perhaps I am. But so are ye, Connall MacLaren.
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.
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…
