Author: Lyla Rosewood

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.

Please enable JavaScript in your browser to complete this form.

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

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

Submit

Best selling books of Lyla

★★★★★ 102 ratings

Ian Wallace never wanted to be laird, but with a dying clan to save, he has no time for complications—especially not the fierce, beautiful prisoner hidden in his own new castle. She’s a MacAlpin, born of the blood he’s sworn to hate but the fire in her eyes stirs something deeper than duty. He should send her away. Instead, he’ll risk everything to keep her.

Read the book

★★★★★ 194 ratings

Thora MacLeod always follows her visions, but kidnapping Laird Aedan Cameron and blackmailing him into a fake marriage at a dangerous Yule gathering? Not her best idea. As sparks fly in enemy territory, their feelings for one another start to complicate things. Thora knows that her visions might save their clans, but they won’t stop her heart from shattering once Aedan finds out she’s been lying to him all along…

Read the book

Chapter One

1647, Jura

“Ye’ll nae break me, ye bastards.”

Lady Margaret MacLean’s voice was hoarse but steady as she spat out those words.

Though her lips were cracked, and her breath tasted of salt and blood, she kept yanking hard on the iron chain that shackled her wrists to the beam overhead, ignoring the sting in her raw skin. The slaver who’d passed by moments earlier had given her a look of half amusement, half wariness.

Let him look. Let them all look.

The ship groaned as it scraped against rock, and the hull lurched as they anchored off the coast of Jura. Margaret had heard one of the men mention the name before, so she knew where they had landed. The scent of kelp and damp earth wafted in through the cracked wooden slats of the hull, solidifying the conviction.

Freedom was just beyond that door. It was so close she could taste it, but the chains refused to give.

The hold was dark and rank with the stink of sweat, sickness, and fear. Around her, girls whimpered softly, their bodies pressed together in a corner where the rats kept away for now. Some had long stopped crying. Others had become hollow-eyed things. They were nothing but ghosts wearing flesh. The sounds and sights scraped at Margaret’s soul.

Was this the fate she was destined for? The fire of rebellion seemed to burn brighter in her than it did in others. She refused to allow the pirates to break her spirit, because as long as she had that, she was alive.

“Margaret,” whispered Elsie, one of the girls from the priory, who had been Margaret’s close friend in these troubled times. Her voice trembled like a reed in wind. “Will they… will they kill us?”

“Nay.” Margaret turned to her, with her chin high despite the ache that throbbed in her temple. “We’re worth more alive. But we willnae let them sell us. We’ll find a way.”

“Still playing at noble lady, are ye?” croaked a voice from behind. It belonged to a girl with matted curls and a half-healed cut across her cheek. She was not one of the priory girls. “Ain’t nae lairds or castles here, princess.”

Margaret bit down the retort. There was no point in telling them the truth. In fact, the truth would make it all even more dangerous for everyone involved, for no one on that ship knew who she truly was. To them, she was just another stolen girl, whose mind kept drifting, unbidden, to the smoke curling above the stone spires of North Berwick Priory, six months past.

She could still remember the steel glinting in the mist, faces covered with scarves and swords soaked in malice. The girls scattered about, running for their lives. Margaret was still dreaming of the flames licking the windows of the priory where her family had raised their only daughter in hiding, fearing the wrath of the MacKenzies, but it seemed that there was more to fear than them alone. In her nightmares, she felt the coarseness of the ropes and the gag in her mouth, as they’d hauled her over a horse like a sack of barley.

A splash brought her back. They were unloading the gangplank. The slavers shouted to one another in a harsh mix of tongues. Somewhere in the distance, a blast cracked through the air, ripping it into two invisible halves.

Margaret curled her fingers into the chain. Her knuckles were bleeding where she’d scraped them against the bolt. She had tried to get away so many times that she had lost count, and the punishment was worse each time, aiming to break her spirit, not only her body.

“Come now, ye wee, pretty thing.” A leering, oily voice cut through the dark. It belonged to a slaver she knew well by now: Coyle. He walked with a limp and liked to toy with his blade. “Let’s see if ye’ve still got fire in ye when ye’re on the block.”

He stooped to unhook her chain from the wall. She lashed out with both feet, catching him in the knee. He swore and backhanded her hard enough to split her lip.

Still, she smiled. “Ye hit like a bairn.”

Coyle grabbed her by the hair and yanked her upright. “Ye’ll regret that mouth, lass.”

Margaret was about to snarl back but the clatter of boots on the ladder made every girl in the dark hold go still. The hatch groaned open fully. Two sailors descended first, rough-looking, broad-shouldered brutes with knives at their belts and piss-soaked boots. Then, Margaret’s eyes fell on the one they all seemed to step aside for. Her entire body trembled, her fingers ached to wrap themselves around his throat and make him expel the very last breath out of his body, for he deserved nothing better. There was to be no mercy for the likes of him.

“Clear out,” came a clipped, commanding voice.

Margaret recognized Coyle’s answering snarl before she saw his face.

“I was told tae guard ’em.”

“Now I’m tellin’ ye tae get above deck.”

Coyle didn’t say anything. He merely spat instead of a response. Then, there was another sound of heavy footfalls retreating up the ladder and Coyle disappeared from view. The new man, who took his place.

Margaret lifted her head just enough to see him now standing at the center of the hold. His coat marked him as something different from the others. It was dark, well-fitted, military in cut. His blond hair was tied back neatly, while his eyes moved across the cramped space like a butcher surveying meat.

He held a small ledger in one hand, and a long, slim knife rested on his belt. Surprisingly, it was not stained with blood like the others’ but it was still honed to a wicked gleam.

“Line ‘em up,” he said.

The sailors barked orders. Girls scrambled to their feet or were yanked up by the arms, whichever way was faster. Margaret moved slowly, not because she was afraid, but because she refused to let them see her fear.

The man approached the first girl and cupped her chin, lifting her face toward the light. He didn’t smile, nor did he speak. He simply looked at what was on offer, at what could be of any use to him. She trembled like a leaf, and when he released her, she sagged back against the beam.

The next girl was inspected more thoroughly. He brushed her hair aside to check her neck, then her arms. She was told to open her mouth, as his gloved hand hovered over her, precise and utterly indifferent. Strangely enough, he did not leer and that, somehow, made it worse.

When he reached Elsie, Margaret clenched her fists so tightly that her nails cut into her palms.

“She’s young,” one of the sailors muttered.

“Still healthy. She’ll fetch a fair price,” that man murmured, jotting something in the ledger.

He continued down the line.

Mary, who was another friend, was also checked, inspected, then marked. Lena was turned around to reveal the fading lash marks across her back. A girl named Isla tried to turn away and was slapped hard by a sailor. The man inspected them all with the easy manner of a man looking at a sword in a merchant’s stall, testing its balance before deciding if it would serve him.

Then he stopped in front of Margaret. He probably expected her to lower her head, like all the other girls did. But she lifted her chin, instead. She vowed to herself that she would not give him shame, or fear, or anything else he obviously wanted of her. Her mother had once told her that pride was not always loud, that it could live in silence, in the way a girl kept her shoulders back even when the world told her to fall to her knees.

So, Margaret kept standing, still and defiant. His gaze roamed from her face down to her frame, which was too thin now, with her ribs slightly visible beneath the coarse shift. She felt utterly bare beneath his assessing gaze, but she refused to look away, even for a moment.

Hunger gnawed at all of them, but Margaret had refused what little food had been offered. Her pride refused to allow her to eat slop meant for pigs. It also refused to let her captors claim even that small victory.

“She’s a pretty one,” he said, speaking as if she weren’t standing right there. “But she’s gone too thin. The buyers’ll see her and think she’s weak an’ sick.”

“She willnae eat,” said one of the sailors nearby.

The man’s eyes narrowed at her. “Is that true?”

Margaret didn’t answer. She knew that silence was the only weapon of power she had to yield in this cruel, unforgiving place and she refused to let it drop out of her clammy, trembling hands.

He took a step closer. “Ye think starving yerself’ll change what’s coming?”

She still gave no reply. Her jaw set even harder.

“Or maybe ye think it’ll kill ye first?” He leaned in slightly. “Dinnae flatter yerself, lass. If ye die down here, I’ll recover the coin elsewhere. Ye’re nae the only asset on this ship.”

Margaret trembled with fear, but her voice was strong. “Aye, well. At least I’d be an asset ye couldnae sell.”

One of the sailors snorted in amusement and another shifted uneasily.

The man’s mouth flattened, and it made the scar she saw on his face even more prominent. “Ye think this is some noble sacrifice? Ye think the world remembers the names of lasses who rot in chains?”

“I dinnae need the world tae remember,” she said coldly.

His expression changed then. There was no more smirking, no more curiosity. There was only a flash of something sharp and immediate, anger intertwined with impatience. He turned to the two men beside him.

“Take her.”

Margaret’s stomach twisted. “What?”

“Tie her in the aft corner… alone.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. “Let her rot in her pride a few days longer. If she starves, so be it.”

Two sailors moved instantly.

Margaret fought, kicking out as one grabbed her arm. The other yanked her chain taut, twisting her wrist painfully. She bucked, cursed, shouted, but there was nowhere to run and no ground to stand on. All this happened while the girls watched in terrified silence.

“Ye bastard!” she spat, her heels dragging through the filth-streaked floor of the hold. “Ye think I’ll beg ye? I’ll never give ye that!”

The man didn’t answer. He just turned his back as they hauled her across the dark space. They threw her down at the far corner of the hold, where the wood sweated cold brine and the rats lingered even in torchlight. The chain rattled loud as they shackled her ankles to an iron loop set into the floor, her arms still bound.

One of them gave the chain a sharp tug for good measure, grinning as she nearly toppled over. She bit back the sound of pain.

Once she was certain that the guards were gone, she continued tugging at the chains. Every movement sent bolts of pain up her calf, but she didn’t stopped trying. She’d twisted her foot until it was nearly numb. She pulled the chain taut, tested the bolts, scraped her fingers bloody searching the seam of the manacle for weakness, but ended up with nothing. And still, she didn’t stop.

Around her, the other girls huddled in silence, with their eyes wide and hollow in the dark. Some wept quietly, while others stared at nothing.

Then, they heard a low thud, which was seemingly insignificant, dull and distant. Then came another, followed by a tremor in the hull. Then shouting and men’s voices rising. The sound of running boots exploded somewhere up above. Someone started barking orders.

Margaret’s head snapped up. Thick and suffocating, the smoke started to curl beneath the hatch and spilt into the hold like a creeping ghost, in search of its next victim. A girl began to cough.

More noise followed, screaming. There were crashes, splintering wood, more screams. Someone bellowed something in a voice Margaret didn’t know.

Fire, she thought to herself, as her heart punched against her ribs. The ship must be burning.

A wave of heat curled down through the gaps in the planks above. The girls were coughing now, stumbling to their feet, desperately pulling at their chains. Some pounded the hull and others wailed for help.

“Nay one’s coming,” Margaret rasped. “Nay one’s coming fer us.”

The smoke was getting thicker, pouring in faster and faster. It stung her eyes and coated her tongue in ash. She didn’t know much, but she knew one thing: if they stayed there, they would all burn.

She glanced down at her tattered dress, noticing a small button. It was made of bone and was already dull from wear. With shaking fingers, she tore it free.

She had no idea what she was doing or what she was trying to achieve. The manacle had a crude keyhole. It was just a rusted oval rim near the hinge. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be locked, just hammered shut. But maybe, just maybe…

Without thinking, she jammed the button in and twisted.

At first, nothing happened. Then, she tried again. Her fingers trembled so hard she dropped it once, scrabbling for it in the dark. Her lungs were burning. Girls were screaming behind her, and a small child retched in the smoke.

She begged whoever was listening… God, the Saints, or the spirit of her clan.

Please, let it give.

She twisted again, harder.

Click.

The sound was so quiet she thought she imagined it. Then the manacle opened. Margaret nearly sobbed, but there was no time. Instead, she composed herself and sprung forward. Her legs were dead from being bound, but she caught herself.

“Mary!” she rasped, crawling back to the girls, coughing through the smoke, using the same button to unclasp her chains. “Elsie… where’s Elsie?”

“Here!” Mary coughed. “Here! She’s stuck, her hands!”

Margaret dropped to her knees and tugged on Elsie’s chains. She wedged her heel against the bolt and pulled. Finally, it budged. Margaret ran to the next girl and used the button again jamming it into the rusted lock.

Another click. Two were freed, then, three. But chaos still reigned.

“The ladder!” someone screamed.

By the time Margaret reached the ladder, her hair reeked of smoke and her chest heaved like a bellows. She glanced back only to see those six girls behind her. Four more were still trying to crawl, while some could barely stand.

She turned to Mary. “Get the little ones up top. If it’s worse above, stay near the hull and wait. Dinnae draw attention.”

“What about ye?”

“I’ll get as many as I can out. Now go!”

Mary hesitated but nodded. She and another older girl began pulling the children toward the ladder. Margaret, on the other hand, stumbled toward the last corner of the hold. There were two girls lying limp on the floor. One of them was coughing blood.

“Nay,” Margaret whispered, picking the first one up. “Ye’re coming, too.”

Smoke swirled all around them, swallowing the light that led to the way out. They had to get off the docked ship, one way or another. But Margaret knew that somewhere beyond that choking darkness, there was wind, there was air, there was freedom and MacLeod’s never left anyone behind.

She helped them toward the hatch, which was already open. Margaret showed the young girl in front of her and grabbed the arms of the other woman.

“Hold ontae her,” she instructed. “Dinnae stop running, nay matter what you see.”

The ladder that went up to the deck was hot beneath her palms. The wood was scorched and slick with soot. Smoke poured over the lip of the hatch, thick and choking, but she forced herself up, pushing the girls forward.

Finally, there was light, which she had not seen in days. But it was not daylight. It was firelight.

Flames licked up the mainmast, while smoke churned across the sky. Men shouted and clashed, and they were not just sailors; Margaret could see that immediately. There were two sides, dressed in distinct clothing, where one group wore the slavers’ rough browns and blues, while the others were finer. A slaver ran past them, bleeding from the shoulder, before he was tackled mid-run by another man who slit his throat in one motion.

A girl whimpered behind her.

“Stay low!” Margaret shouted. “Dinnae stop!”

She darted across the deck, the wood burning hot beneath her bare feet. One woman stumbled behind her, coughing so hard she could barely stand, but Margaret reached back, grabbed her arm, and dragged her. They could see the ladder over the port side. It dangled above the waves, the sea black and boiling with reflected fire.

“Almost there,” Margaret gasped, shoving them toward it. “Go!”

The girls hesitated; their eyes wide with terror.

“Go!” Margaret shouted again.

The girl lunged for the ladder, then began to descend. Margaret watched as the other girls went down, seizing the chance for their safety. Just as Margaret was about to go down herself, she saw a familiar face: Mary was running toward her, pulling Elsie by the hand.

“Here, quickly!” Margaret shouted in a breathless manner.

Without thinking, she urged them to go down. Elsie grabbed the ladder, stopping to look up.

“But what about ye?” she asked with a voice that was on the verge of breaking.

“I’ll be right behind ye, I promise,” Margaret said, squeezing Elsie’s hand.

Her heart was thudding inside her throat, while fear gripped at every fiber of her being. But she couldn’t stop now, not when they were all so close to freedom.

Finally, as she watched Elsie’s head disappear, she headed down herself, feeling thrilled. She could almost taste the freedom on her rough tongue, she could smell it coming to her on the wings of a breeze. Just as her feet touched solid ground, a hand seized her elbow.

“Ye’re nae going anywhere, lassie!”

Chapter Two

The voice belonged to Coyle.

His breath was hot and sour against her cheek as he yanked her back toward himself. Margaret twisted hard, but his grip on her elbow was like an iron vice. His filthy nails dug through the sleeve of her dress and into her skin.

“Too pretty tae toss intae a crowd right now, aye?” he murmured, dragging her in close. “Might be I fetch a fine coin fer ye later. Or maybe I’ll have me fill first. See what all the fuss is about.”

“Let go of me,” she hissed, trying to plant her heel into his instep, but he shifted, dodging the blow. Her heart thundered. “Let… go… of me!”

“Oh, I’ll let go,” he said, grinning with blackened teeth, “but nae till I’ve had a wee bit o’ fun.”

She shoved at his chest, but he barely budged. He was thick with muscle, and sweaty, taller than most, and with the mad gleam of a man who enjoyed fear. Behind them, the deck was still chaos. It was a shower of shouts, steel and smoke, but no one seemed to see her. No one came running to her help. The bastard had chosen his moment well.

He wrenched her around so her back hit the scorched railing, one hand slipping to her waist.

“I like ‘em feisty,” he muttered, in a dark voice that felt like quicksand. “Means they scream nice.”

Margaret went cold. She knew that fear and panic were not her friends. She had to think and act on the first thing that came to mind. She brought her knee up again, sharper this time, aiming for his groin, but he caught her leg mid-thrust and laughed.

“Ach, ye’re a clever one. That’ll earn ye time in chains when this is over.”

“Go tae hell!” she spat at him.

“I’ve lived there all me life, lass,” he sneered. “And I’ll drag ye there with me if I please.”

His hand moved higher.

Nae like this.

But before she could draw breath to scream again, a hand shot out from the smoke, grabbing Coyle by the shoulder and wrenching him backward with a force that made him stumble.

“What in hell—” he started, grabbing a nearby barrel for support.

The other man who faced him wasn’t a slaver. That much was clear in an instant.

His coat was scorched and slashed at the sleeve, the left side dark with blood. Nae his own, Margaret guessed. He was leaner than Coyle, but quicker, as his shoulders squared in a fighter’s stance, revealing a blade in his hand.

Margaret backed away, stumbling into the railing as the two men faced each other. Around them, the ship cracked and roared, smoke climbing like a living thing. A mast gave a terrible groan behind them, as it splintered above the chaos, but neither man looked away.

There was a dark scrape on the stranger’s jaw and a tear at the edge of his sleeve. Still, he stood untouched and ready, the kind of a man who could end a life with his hands and still walk away unbothered.

She should have been afraid, and yet, her body betrayed her. Heat stirred in her belly, reckless and unfamiliar. Her skin flushed as if waking for the first time in what felt like years. Her lips parted and her breathing came faster now, too shallow. She couldn’t look away from his hands, or the way the wind caught the edge of his coat and revealed the lean strength beneath. He was not handsome in the usual sense, but he was striking, nonetheless. He was danger personified in human form, and now, he was fighting for her.

Coyle’s snarl brought her back to the present moment.

“Who the hell are ye?”

Steel met steel with a harsh clang, and the air was suddenly alive with the fury of it. The men proceeded to slash, parry, throw curses between blows. Coyle fought like a brawler: ruthless, untrained, relying on brute strength and rage. But the stranger moved like a wolf. His manner was sharp, clean, and efficient.

Coyle tried to drive him back with his blade flashing, but he missed and nearly lost his footing. The stranger turned the miss into a strike, slicing low. The bastard grunted and staggered, blood blooming across his thigh. He bellowed and lunged, swinging high.

The stranger ducked. Steel flashed again and this time, the blade cut deep across the slaver’s side. The brute stumbled back with his one hand pressed to the wound. Blood oozed through his fingers.

“I’ll gut ye fer this,” he spat.

The man took a single step forward with his blade still raised. “Try.”

Coyle hesitated. Margaret doubted he had the bravado to fight the stranger again. As it turned out, she was right. Still limping, he disappeared into the smoke, leaving behind only the sound of his voice cursing them both.

For a moment, the ship blurred again. It was all one explosion of firelight, chaos and screams still echoing from the far side of the deck. The stranger lowered his blade but kept his eyes surveying the ship. Finally, he turned to Margaret.

“Are ye alright?” he asked.

Margaret stared at him with her throat raw and her heart slamming like a war drum. She didn’t know who he was. And worse yet, she didn’t know if he’d just saved her life or if he meant to take it for himself.

But she nodded just once, slowly.

“Aye,” she rasped. “Fer now.”

That was when the screams quieted. The smoke was still curling in waves across the deck. There were bodies lying scattered. Some were groaning, others were still. She knew what that meant. The mast had split partway, but the blaze hadn’t yet consumed the whole.

The slavers were down. It was the men in the dark coats, the ones she had thoughts of as buyers, that were now standing victorious, their boots streaked in soot and blood.

Margaret clenched her fists. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. She chose terrified.

The man who had pulled Coyle off her still hadn’t sheathed his blade as his gaze swept the deck. A moment later, another man approached him. He was younger, with a cut along his brow and a grin too relaxed for the situation. He nodded toward the slaver’s quarterdeck.

“Ship’s secured. Cargo hold’s clear. A few cowards jumped overboard when the flames started, but we rounded the rest up.”

The stranger gave a single nod, then turned back to Margaret. His dark eyes locked onto hers, and a million little goosebumps erupted throughout her body.

“Dae ye ken where the other slaves are?” he asked.

“Why?” she snarled defensively mustering the last drop of her courage.

She could see there was a bruise forming at the corner of his jaw, darkening already beneath the rough stubble. There was also a smear of blood above his brow. Everything about him was an utter mess, and still, he was undeniably attractive to her, in that maddening, dangerous way.

She had not been touched with kindness in weeks, not since her life had cracked open and spilled into darkness. And now, this man had stepped between her and harm without hesitation.

“Why?” she snarled defensively mustering the last drop of her courage against the onslaught that was this stranger and his damningly wicked smile.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Because they’re still below deck. And it’s burnin’.”

He was right. She knew that some of them had gotten away. But there were others, still left trapped below deck. She hoped that they had managed to free themselves somehow, though.

“Ye plan tae haul them out just tae sell them yerself? Go find them on yer own.”

He blinked in confusion, as if weighing whether to laugh or strike her. But he did neither. Instead, the corner of his mouth twitched, revealing a ghost of something like amusement.

“Feisty,” he murmured.

She hated the way that answer curled inside of her, like warmth and protection, like something she couldn’t let herself want or need.

“Dinnae patronize me.”

“I’m nae.”

She folded her arms. “Good.”

The wiry man beside him made a low sound, which resembled half laugh and half cough, but the stranger only took a slow step toward her. Margaret didn’t back down.

He studied her for a moment. “If I meant tae sell them, I wouldnae have gutted half a crew tae get this ship.”

“Maybe ye just dinnae like tae share,” she said feistily.

There was another flicker of that ghost smile.

“Ye’re right,” he finally said. “I dinnae.”

His tone was calm, mild even, but there was iron beneath it.

“And yet,” he added, “ye’re still breathing. So maybe take the help, lass, and ferget yer pride.”

She narrowed her eyes, while he held her gaze, refusing to look away even for a single moment. Her treacherous mind started to envision him smiling, shirtless, with the wind tugging at his hair, while her fingers traversed the protruding lines of his muscles…

That’s enough!

The truth was that she couldn’t see through him. There was nothing about him that allowed her to tilt the scales to either side. He might have been a ruthless killer, like any of the slavers were, or he might have been a savior. After all, had he not allowed her attacker to run away, granting him his life, although the villain didn’t deserve it?

Finally, with a sharp exhale, she turned away and jerked her chin toward the blackened hatch.

“Down there… port side. They were chained tae the beams, I dinnae ken if they managed tae free themselves like I did.”

All he did was flick his finger in that direction, and several men headed down there. He was still looking at her when he spoke.

“Ye what?”

“I broke me own chains,” she said, more fiercely than she intended. “I—I used the button from me dress and got the lock loose.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Ye opened iron chains with a button?”

“I didnae have a choice.”

The man stared at her for a long, unreadable moment.

“Ye freed yerself.”

She folded her arms across her chest, feeling for some reason, proud of herself that she shocked him with her skills. “That’s what I just said.”

“Ye’ve got sharp teeth,” he pointed out.

“I’ll use them,” she shot back. “If ye try tae put me in chains again.”

“Good.” He stepped toward her again, just once. He was close enough now that she could see the soot streaking his jawline, the tension at the corners of his mouth. “Ye willnae need them… nae with me.”

“Ye expect me tae believe that?” Her voice wavered between bitter and breathless, and it was all because of him. “Ye burn a slaver ship tae the waterline and act like a savior, but I’ve seen enough masks tae ken better.”

“I’m nae wearing one.”

“Right.” She snorted. “And ye just happened tae show up at the perfect moment?”

“That’s what happens,” he explained, “when ye make a habit of hunting men like them.”

Margaret blinked. Her heart still pounded with heat and rage. But he was closer now. And her breath caught for reasons that had nothing to do with smoke.

“Ye really expect me tae trust ye?” she whispered.

“I dinnae expect anything from ye,” he told her with a dismissive shrug of his broad shoulders. “But I’ll tell ye this, I dinnae take slaves. I kill the bastards who do.”

She looked at him… really looked. He was still dangerous. That was the part that didn’t change. It radiated from him in the way he held himself, as if every room, every ship, every battlefield was his to walk through unchallenged. He was darkness wrapped in command, in fury barely restrained. And she hated, no… utterly despised how drawn she was to that.

“I still dinnae trust ye,” she muttered.

He smirked. “Ye’re nae supposed tae.”

And blast him, there it was, that flicker in his eyes again.

She turned away fast, refusing to linger on it. “Just… help the girls.”

The stranger gave a single nod and turned back toward the hatch. But as he disappeared into the smoke again, Margaret’s fists clenched at her sides and she cursed herself.

She had no idea who he was. But if he wasn’t a slaver, he was something else entirely. And that, somehow, worried her even more…

Please enable JavaScript in your browser to complete this form.

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

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

Submit

Best selling books of Lyla

★★★★★ 102 ratings

Ian Wallace never wanted to be laird, but with a dying clan to save, he has no time for complications—especially not the fierce, beautiful prisoner hidden in his own new castle. She’s a MacAlpin, born of the blood he’s sworn to hate but the fire in her eyes stirs something deeper than duty. He should send her away. Instead, he’ll risk everything to keep her.

Read the book

★★★★★ 194 ratings

Thora MacLeod always follows her visions, but kidnapping Laird Aedan Cameron and blackmailing him into a fake marriage at a dangerous Yule gathering? Not her best idea. As sparks fly in enemy territory, their feelings for one another start to complicate things. Thora knows that her visions might save their clans, but they won’t stop her heart from shattering once Aedan finds out she’s been lying to him all along…

Read the book