The shout cut across the clang of steel and the steady rhythm of his breath. Tristan swung his practice blade up into guard, feeling the sweat stinging his eyes, and then, he turned. Brian was running across the castle grounds, his chest heaving from the effort.
Tristan’s stomach dropped at once, for Brian was not a man given to panic.
“What is it?” he demanded, lowering the sword.
Brian doubled over for a heartbeat, dragging breath into his lungs before the words came. “The slavers—they came in the night. They’ve taken women from the village… and yer sister among them.”
For a moment, the world tilted. Tristan’s grip slackened, the sword clattering to the earth.
“Elena?” The name escaped him raw, disbelieving. His sister’s laughter still rang in his memory from the evening before. He could not make sense of it. “Nay… it cannae be.”
Brian’s eyes burned with grim certainty. “It is. Me cousin as well. The folk at the docks saw it all.” He straightened, his jaw set hard. “Ye ken what this means, Tristan. Yer faither struck bargains with devils, and now the devils take their due.”
Tristan’s chest heaved, his blood surging hot with rage. His father’s whispered dealings, his blind eye to the filth that stained their coasts, Tristan had heard the rumors, felt the shame coil tight in his gut. But to touch Elena, his sister…
“Nay,” he spat, fury sparking through the shock. “Nae bargain could ever give them leave tae take her, tae take any of them.”
Brian seized his arm urgently. “Deals with evil men are never fair, Tristan. Ye ken that better than most.
“Aye,” Tristan nodded. “If we’re tae stop them, we must move now.”
The words struck like steel striking flint, sparking purpose through Tristan’s grief. He snatched up his sword, his hand steady once more.
“Then to the docks,” he said. “And may the devil help any man who stands in our way.”
The air grew harsher the closer they came to the sea, while the gulls were wheeling overhead in ragged cries that seemed more omen than song. Tristan’s boots struck hard against the worn planks as he burst onto the docks.
But the ships were gone.
The great black sails that had haunted his nightmares were now only smudges upon the horizon, their hulking shadows swallowed by distance and waves. The harbor was chaos left behind: villagers were stumbling, some were weeping, some were staring blank-eyed at the water as though they had left their very souls in its depths. Ropes and crates lay scattered, broken barrels leaking across the boards, as if the world had been torn open in haste.
“Elena!” Tristan’s voice split the air, raw and desperate. He darted down the length of the docks, shoving through the huddled figures. “Elena!”
But there was no answering voice, only the sound of waves lapping against the timbers.
He seized the nearest man by the collar, a fisherman whose clothes were torn and his face ashen. “Tell me!” Tristan snarled. “Did ye see her? Me sister—Elena—where did they take her?”
The man flinched, shaking his head with trembling lips. “I dinnae ken, I swear! They… they took a group of women. Some screamed, some fought…” His eyes flicked toward the water, looking haunted. “Those who resisted too much… they didnae make it.”
A sickness coiled deep in Tristan’s gut, but he released the man with a shove and staggered to the edge of the dock. The sea lay restless before him, carrying with it the cruelest truths. He saw them then, shapes drifting among the waves, limp forms caught in the tide. His heart pounded as he searched each face that surfaced, praying and dreading.
But none were Elena.
He gripped the rail until his knuckles blanched, the salt wind stinging his eyes. Fury and despair warred within him, and he could not quell it. She was gone, stolen from him, and the sea itself mocked his helplessness. His heart hammered with the urge to leap into the sea itself, to swim until his arms gave out if it meant reaching her.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, something pale caught against the rough timber of the dock.
He moved toward it slowly at first, then with gathering urgency. A strip of fabric fluttered in the salt wind, snagged on a splintered post. His chest tightened as he reached for it, feeling dread already coiling cold and sharp inside him.
It was her scarf.
It was the same soft weave their mother had once worn, passed down to Elena with care. She never parted from it, not even in the summer, for it was her one tether to the woman they had lost too soon. Tristan knew every thread of it, every fray at the edge from years of wear.
But now the scarf was torn.
Worse yet, it was stained. A blotch of darkened red marred the pale fabric, dried and ugly against the cloth that had once been so cherished.
Tristan’s hand shook as he lifted it, the weight of it unbearable in its lightness. His throat closed, the air searing as he tried to draw breath. For the first time since Brian had spoken the words, the truth struck with brutal clarity: Elena was gone, dragged from him, leaving behind only this broken remnant.
His knees nearly buckled, but rage stiffened his spine. He clutched the scarf in his fist, holding it as though by sheer will he could bind her to him, keep her safe across the miles of sea.
Behind him, Brian’s voice came quiet and heavy with sorrow. “Tristan…”
Tristan’s grip tightened around the bloodstained scarf until his knuckles whitened. His chest heaved, overwhelmed by grief and rage.
“This is his daeing,” he spat, his voice rough as gravel. “All of it. Me faither let them in. He turned his back while devils prowled our shores. Elena would still be here if nae fer his cursed bargains.”
Brian stepped closer, his face shadowed with his own sorrow. “Tristan…” He hesitated, then said quietly, “ye’re nae the only one who lost someone this night. Me cousin was among them. Others are grieving. But now is nae the time fer rash decisions. Rage will nae bring them back.”
Tristan wheeled on him with blazing eyes. “Rash?” His voice cut sharp and bitter. “I’ve listened tae him fer the last time, Brian. He told us nae tae worry when the danger was raised yesternight. He said it was naething but rumor. We should have acted… and now they are gone.”
Brian’s mouth opened, but no words came. The truth in Tristan’s voice hung heavy and undeniable, and the silence between them stretched like a wound.
Tristan shoved past him, with the scarf clenched in his fist. He could feel fury burning through his every step. “I’ll nae waste another moment here. If me faither’s word gave those monsters their foothold, then he’ll answer tae me fer it.”
He strode to where his horse was tethered, vaulted into the saddle, and wheeled the beast toward the rising slope that led back to the castle. Brian stood torn and rooted on the dock, but he did not call after him. He knew better than to do that.
The wind tore at Tristan’s hair as he drove the horse forward, the thundering hooves echoing his heartbeat. His mind burned with the thought of Elena and his father’s careless dismissal the night before.
The castle gates loomed high, but Tristan did not slow. He thundered through the courtyard, scattering startled servants, and flung himself from the saddle before the horse had even stilled. He barged in through the carved doors of the great hall.
At the high table, draped in furs and drinking from a silver cup, sat Laird MacRae. His expression was not one of grief, but of irritation at the interruption.
“Tristan,” he said with a sigh, as though his son had come to complain of some petty slight. “Must ye storm in like some wild clansman? Have ye nae respect fer—”
“Respect?” Tristan’s voice cracked like a whip through the hall. His hand trembled as he held aloft the torn, bloodstained scarf. “Ye speak of respect when Elena, yer own daughter, is stolen by slavers ye allowed upon Jura’s shores?”
The laird’s gaze flicked to the scarf, then back to Tristan, cruelly unflinching. “Was she taken alone?”
Tristan frowned. “Why daes that matter?”
His father shrugged, and Tristan had to force himself not to grab his own father by the throat and extinguish his existence right then and there.
“Aye… some people were taken. But we’ve coin in our coffers, and coin feeds men, buys peace. Such sacrifices are… regrettable, but necessary.”
The words struck Tristan like a blade. For a heartbeat, he could only stare, feeling his ears ringing. “Sacrifices?” he echoed emptily. “Ye call Elena, yer blood, a sacrifice fer yer greed?”
His father’s lips curled into something between a sneer and a smile. “Ye’re young yet, lad. Ye dinnae ken what it takes tae keep power. Women are plentiful, but gold… gold can get scarce.”
A roar broke from Tristan’s throat, the sound so raw it startled even the laird’s guards posted by the door. He strode forward, slamming his fists upon the high table so the silver cup toppled and spilled wine across the furs.
“Damn yer gold!” he thundered. “Damn every coin that bought their chains! Elena is gone because of ye! Our people suffer because of ye! And I’ll nae stand silent another day.”
The laird rose slowly, his height still commanding though his belly hung heavy with indulgence. His sharp and cold eyes narrowed.
“Mind yer tongue, lad. Ye forget yerself. I am laird here. Ye are but me son and ye’ll obey me.”
Tristan’s chest heaved, as fury burnt like fire in his veins. He clenched Elena’s scarf in his fist and felt the last shred of loyalty crumble away.
“Nay,” he growled. “I’ve obeyed ye fer the last time. The laird who trades his own kin fer gold is nae laird of mine.”
The laird’s face darkened, his jaw tightening until the veins stood out along his temples. With a sudden snarl, he raised his hand to strike, the same hand that had once cuffed Tristan in childhood for the smallest disobedience.
But this time, Tristan’s arm shot up. His fingers closed like iron around his father’s wrist, stopping the blow mid-air.
The hall froze. The guards at the doors shifted uneasily, yet none dared intervene. The great hearth roared, casting wild light across the two men locked in their struggle: one with brute will, the other with a lifetime of pent fury.
Tristan’s chest heaved, his eyes blazing into his father’s. “For nineteen years,” he said, his voice low but carrying like thunder across stone, “I have obeyed ye. I have bent me head, played the dutiful son, and borne yer commands without question.” He twisted his father’s wrist slightly, forcing the older man to grimace in pain. “But nay longer.”
His grip tightened on Elena’s scarf in his other hand, the bloodied fabric trembling with the force of his rage. “Ye speak of coin while yer daughter is torn from us. Ye bargain with devils and call it wisdom. All that remains tae ye is your gold. May it keep ye warm.”
The words rang through the hall, final as a death knell.
His father’s eyes widened, shocked not by the loss of a child but by the defiance in one who had always yielded. For the first time, the great Laird MacRae looked less like a ruler and more like an old man who was caught unprepared.
Tristan released him with a shove, and the laird stumbled back a pace, clutching his wrist. The scarf slipped against Tristan’s palm, a reminder of everything shattered.
Silence fell upon everything, like a heavy death shroud, until Tristan spat his final words. “From this day forth, ye have nay son, just as ye have nay daughter.”
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 isle of Jura had changed. What once had been a quiet, windswept place of heathered hills and sea-stung air now held, nestled near the small village, a thriving center of life and hope.
The house that Margaret had first secured for the rescued men, women, and children was no longer simply a shelter. It had grown into a proper establishment, with barns and workshops, tidy gardens, spinning rooms, and a schoolhouse whose bell now rang each morning to summon eager voices.
It had been two years since the last slaver ship had dared to sail the waters. Word had spread swiftly that the coast of Jura was no longer a place for such vile trade, and indeed, no ship had been seized since. The people had found refuge there, and more: they had found belonging.
Margaret herself stood in the courtyard, the late summer sun soft upon her bonnet. She watched as several of the young men carried newly hewn timbers toward the smithy, laughing together as though they had been born to the island. Nearby, a group of women tended the rows of vegetables, their lilting songs mingling with the seabird cries, while children ran barefoot in the grass, their play watched over fondly by both villagers and their new kin.
The villagers of Jura, once cautious, had long since opened their arms. Many of the former captives now worked alongside them: as shepherds, weavers, fishermen, and merchants. One young woman, Amara, had married the cooper’s son the previous spring, and the union had been celebrated by all. Another, Kwaku, had become known for his strength at the pier, aiding in the unloading of casks with a grin that seemed never to leave him.
Margaret’s eyes softened as she passed the schoolhouse, peering in at the rows of children bent over their slates. A boy lifted his head, caught sight of her, and waved with unabashed affection. She returned the gesture, pride swelling within her. How far they had all come.
She moved on, greeted at every turn. Some addressed her as Mistress Margaret, some simply as Màiri, the Gaelic softened by affection. She never corrected them; their belonging was more precious than titles. The villagers no longer spoke of “them” and “us.” There was only “we,” and the island seemed stronger for it.
At the heart of it all, Margaret carried her own quiet satisfaction. She had not been alone in the work, for the good people of Jura had given much, but she had been the steady hand, the keeper of promises, the voice that never faltered when doubts arose. And now, standing in the midst of laughter, labor, and learning, she knew the endeavor had not only rescued lives but knit them into the very fabric of the land.
Margaret turned from the schoolhouse just as a shadow crossed the courtyard. She knew the shape of it at once: tall, broad-shouldered, the stride confident yet softened in her presence. Tristan was coming toward her. His dark coat caught the breeze and though he bore the dignity of his station, his smile, reserved only for her, transformed him into something gentler than any laird could be.
“Me love,” he said, his voice low, yet warm enough that those nearby instinctively drew back to grant them space. He took her gloved hand into his, brushing his thumb over her fingers. “I have been looking fer ye. The watchmen have signaled there is a ship approaching the bay.”
Margaret’s heart quickened, for no vessel had come unheralded in many months. She searched his face, yet found no concern there, only the glimmer of anticipation in his eyes.
“Dae ye think…?” she began, but she wasn’t able to finish her sentence.
“I think,” Tristan interrupted gently, bending nearer so only she might hear, “that its passengers come as friends, nae foes. And I think,” he added, his smile deepening, “that the mistress of this place, whose labor has given Jura a new heart, ought tae stand at me side tae greet them.”
Margaret felt a warmth bloom within her, the mingling of pride and joy. Though two years had passed since their work had begun, the call to welcome, to shelter, still stirred her spirit as keenly as ever. She glanced once more at the courtyard, at the bustle of purposeful lives, then back at Tristan.
“I would be honored,” she said, her voice clear though her throat ached with gladness.
Tristan pressed a brief kiss to her brow, heedless of the watchful villagers. “Then come, Margaret. Let us show them what a true welcome feels like.”
The path to the shore was lined with villagers, both old families of Jura and the newer souls who had found their home here. The air thrummed with excitement. Sails had not broken the horizon for many months, and every mast carried with it the promise of tidings and kin.
Margaret and Tristan descended the slope together. The ship, a stout merchant vessel, rode the tide with proud ease, her canvas furled as she drifted into anchorage. Men shouted cheerfully as lines were thrown, and the crowd pressed forward, waving handkerchiefs and calling names.
One by one, passengers began to disembark. Some rushed into waiting arms, embraced by brothers, cousins, or sweethearts. Others paused to look in wonder at the gathering of villagers and former captives, marveling at the harmony so evident upon the shore.
Margaret watched, her hand still in Tristan’s, her eyes wide as recognition began to stir among those assembled. Murmurs ran through the crowd. Then, as though the world itself hushed for her, she saw a familiar figure step from the gangway.
It was Alexandra.
Her friend, her dear companion of heart and history, the one who had once borne the peril of being mistaken for Margaret herself, now stood before her. Alexandra’s face was brighter than the day, her eyes searching until they found Margaret’s. At her side was Callum, tall and steady, his hand resting at his wife’s back with tender protectiveness.
Margaret did not wait for ceremony. With a cry, she broke from Tristan’s arm and hurried forward. Alexandra met her halfway, and the two women clutched one another fiercely, laughing and crying at the same time.
“Margaret,” Alexandra whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “How I have longed tae see ye again.”
“And I, ye,” Margaret replied, drawing back only enough to look upon her face. “Safe, well, and radiant… ye cannae ken what joy this is tae me.”
Callum stepped forward then, bowing his head with respect before drawing Margaret into a fond brotherly embrace of his own. “Jura has thrived under yer hand,” he said warmly. “It is plain tae see.”
Alexandra, still holding Margaret’s hands tightly, added with a smile that trembled at its edges. “I bring ye tidings as well. Yer faither told me that he told ye about how Callum and I went looking fer ye when we got married, tae try tae find ye and tell him what had happened. We have remained in touch ever since. He and yer uncle send their regards. They could nae accompany us now, but they vow they shall come within a few months’ time. They wish tae see with their own eyes the work ye have accomplished here.”
Margaret’s breath caught, tears stinging anew. She pressed a hand to her heart. “It is more than I had dared hope.”
Tristan joined them then, clasping Callum’s hand in greeting, his other arm slipping once more around Margaret’s shoulders as if to steady her joy. Around them, the villagers and the rescued families mingled with the newcomers.
By dusk, Jura was alight. Torches flickered along the shore and through the village green, their flames bright against the indigo sky. Word of the ship’s safe arrival had spread swiftly, and it seemed every soul on the island had gathered for the feast that followed.
Long tables had been set beneath the open sky, draped with cloths and laden with platters of roasted mutton, oat bannocks still warm, baskets of apples and berries, and jugs of ale and whisky gleaming in the firelight. From the neighboring isles, pipers and fiddlers had come. They were men who remembered the old songs and had added new ones to honor the present day.
Margaret sat near the head of the gathering, with Tristan at her side, though she scarcely remained seated. Her heart brimmed too fully, and she moved often among her people, greeting this family, that group of children, clasping hands and pressing cheeks with women she had helped settle when first they arrived from the sea.
At last, when the fiddles struck up a reel, Margaret found herself drawn back to Alexandra, who stood with Callum and a circle of villagers. Alexandra’s cheeks were flushed from the fire and her smile as radiant as Margaret remembered from girlhood. They clasped hands again, as though reluctant to lose one another even for a moment.
“How strange it feels,” Margaret murmured, “to stand here with ye, when nae so long ago I feared we should never see one another again.”
“And stranger still,” Alexandra answered softly, “that the danger we once fled has become the seed of all this.” She gestured toward the throng of dancing, laughter and the mingling of those once strangers, now kin. “Ye have done it, Margaret. Ye have made a place where the world begins anew.”
Margaret’s eyes shimmered. “Nae I alone,” she said. “It was ye, too. Dae ye nae see? Without yer courage, without what ye bore in me stead, none of this might have been possible.”
Alexandra squeezed her hand, then, with a glance toward Tristan, added slyly. “And perhaps the laird has had some small part in it as well.”
At that, Tristan slipped his arm around Margaret’s waist and kissed her temple, to the amusement of those nearby. “If I have had any part,” he said, “it was only in holding fast tae this woman, who has given Jura her heart.”
Margaret beamed at her husband, appreciating his words.
“Ye truly shine tonight,” Alexandra said, tilting her head, her voice pitched low so that only Margaret and Tristan might hear. “More than the torches, more than the stars. There is a light in ye, dearest friend and unless I mistake meself, it is nae only happiness that makes ye glow so.”
Margaret laughed, startled, her hand instinctively pressing to her waist. For a moment she hesitated, then looked to Tristan, whose eyes were already upon her, as though he had known the words before they were spoken.
“Alexandra,” Margaret said softly, her voice trembling with joy, “ye see rightly. I am growing… fer I am carrying Tristan’s child.”
The words hung like a blessing in the air. Alexandra’s eyes filled with tears as she clasped her friend’s hand, while Callum grinned broadly and clapped Tristan upon the shoulder with a brother’s pride.
Tristan, though, scarcely noticed Callum’s gesture. His gaze was fixed wholly upon Margaret. He drew her close, his hand resting reverently where hers had strayed. His voice, when he spoke, was hushed but fervent, the depth of his feeling clear to all who heard.
“Our child. Margaret, I thought me heart already full, yet ye have given me more than I ever dreamed. Jura has found its new life and so have we.”
She leaned into him, her cheek against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath the swell of fiddles and song. Around them the feast continued, voices rising in merriment, but for a moment it was only the three of them: Margaret, Tristan, and the promise of the child who would be born into this land remade.
Alexandra’s smile was radiant through her tears. “Then it seems, me dearest, that the future of Jura is doubly secure: in the people ye have sheltered, and in the family ye are about tae bring forth.”
Margaret lifted her gaze to Tristan’s, her eyes alight with the fire of hope. “Aye,” she whispered, so softly it was for him alone.
The music swelled yet again, calling dancers forward. Children leapt first, their bare feet flashing, before the grown folk joined, spinning in lively circles. Even the elders clapped their hands in time, their eyes bright with pride.
As Margaret watched the rescued souls and island-born alike, twirling as one people, she felt something within her settle. This was the vision she had held through trial, danger and doubt: not simply survival, but belonging; not merely shelter, but joy.
Later, as the stars wheeled high above and the fiddles played gentler airs, Margaret leaned into Tristan’s shoulder, Alexandra seated nearby with Callum’s arm about her. The night air carried the scent of salt and peat smoke, and the sound of voices lifted in a Gaelic song older than memory itself.
Margaret closed her eyes, listening, and thought of her father’s promise to come. Soon, he would see it with his own eyes, the living proof that chains could be broken, and that from suffering might rise a world made whole.
And on Jura, beneath the eternal stars, she knew that that was only the beginning.
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
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…
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…
Ian Wallace stared at the royal messenger as if the man might suddenly sprout wings and fly away, taking with him the ornate parchment that bore the unmistakable seal of King Charles II. The golden-red wax caught the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the small tavern’s grimy windows, casting smudged reflections on the rough wooden table.
“Aye, me laird.” The messenger replied with the weary patience of a man who’d ridden hard for days. “Ian Wallace, grandson of Ian Wallace, son of Bryan Wallace. That would be ye, would it nae?”
Me laird.
The words made him sick. He’d never expected to hear them applied to himself, least of all in connection with Clan Wallace – the same clan that had cast out his grandfather decades ago.
“I think there’s been some sort of mistake,” Ian said carefully, though his fingers itched to break the seal and read the contents of the parchment. “I’m a soldier, naething more. Clan Wallace surely has far better candidates fer–”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, me laird, but His Majesty daesnae make mistakes in such matters.” The messenger’s tone suggested he’d had this conversation before. “The genealogy was researched most extensively. Ye are the closest livin’ male relative tae the late Douglas Wallace.”
Ian’s throat tightened. Douglas, whom he’d never met, the same man who’d died in a battle just weeks ago caused by a feud between the Clans Wallace and MacAlpin. A man whose reputation for cruelty and political scheming had reached even that wretched remote village.
And now they want me tae step intae his bloodstained boots?
“The clan Council has been informed of His Majesty’s decision,” the messenger continued. “They await yer arrival at Castle Wallace tae formally accept the position.”
Ian almost laughed at the bitter irony. Castle Wallace – the same castle his grandfather had described in countless stories, the home that should have been theirs by right, now being offered to him like some sort of consolation prize.
“I’ll need time tae consider this,” Ian said finally.
“Of course, me laird. Though I should warn that His Majesty expects an answer within a fortnight.” The man rose from his seat, shouldering his satchel. “The Highlands require strong leadership, and instability in Clan Wallace affects the entire region.”
Ian nodded numbly, barely registering the man’s departure. He sat alone at the small table, staring at the unopened scroll as if it might burst into flames.
Would that it could.
Around him, the tavern’s afternoon customers went about their business – farmers discussing crops, merchants haggling over prices, soldiers sharing tales of distant battles. Normal people living normal lives, unburdened by the weight of royal expectations.
What would grandfaither make of this?
The old man had spent his final years regaling Ian with stories of Wallace lands, of the castle and the people who’d once been their family. But always with the sour reality that they were outsiders now, unwelcome in the very place that should have welcomed them.
With trembling fingers, Ian broke the seal.
Tae Ian Wallace, grandson of Ian Wallace, son of Bryan Wallace, Greetings,
By the Grace of God almighty and in recognition of yer rightful claim through blood and birth, I dae hereby appoint ye Laird of Clan Wallace, with all rights, responsibilities and privileges thereuntae belonging following the death of Laird Douglas Wallace. As his closest next of kin I trust ye will take this responsibility with the utmost care.
The formal words seemed to blur before Ian’s eyes. Rights and responsibilities. Privileges. All the things his grandfather had lost for choosing happiness over politics, now being handed back to the next generation like a poisoned bannock.
Ian’s jaw tightened with such force he thought his teeth might shatter as he kept reading. He set the letter down, his hands shaking. Justice and welfare of the people – noble words, but what did they truly mean when applied to a clan that had spent decades following despicable leaders like Douglas? How could he possibly bridge the gap between what the Wallace name had become and what it should represent?
Ian stared out of the small window of the tavern at the countryside beyond. Somewhere to the north of there lay Castle Wallace – the home that should have been theirs, but with a legacy of the stronghold of a clan that had rejected their family when honor conflicted with convenience.
How can I lead people who would have spat on our grandfaither’s grace? How can I represent a clan built on the same twisted priorities that drove them tae exile our blood?
Then, another thought crossed his mind, soft as a lover’s whisper.
What if I could change all of that? What if I could make the clan intae somethin’ better than what Douglas had left behind? Would grandfaither want me tae accept this – take on the responsibility fer a clan that hurt him so deeply?
Ian closed his eyes, remembering his grandfather’s weathered face, his gentle voice telling tales beside the fire. The old man had carried bitterness, certainly, but never hatred. Even when speaking of his exile, there had always been sorrow for what was lost rather than anger at those who’d taken it.
He’d always said that clans were made of people. And that people could change, could be better than their past mistakes. And that sometimes the greatest honor came from healing old wounds instead of letting them fester.
Ian picked up the letter again, reading the king’s words with new eyes. It wasn’t just an appointment – it was an opportunity. A chance to prove that the Wallace name could mean something different, something honest, something honorable.
But it was also his chance for justice. Not the anger-filled, destructive justice of vengeance, but the quiet, restorative justice of setting things right.
Ian folded the letter carefully, his decision crystallizing like frost on a pond. Outside the tavern window, the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson.
Tomorrow, he would begin the journey to Castle Wallace. To the home his grandfather had been denied, that he would reclaim – not through force or political maneuvering, but through the kind of leadership that honored both duty and heart.
Let me be worthy of this, let me be a laird Grandfaither would be proud of and the clan would be proud tae follow.
The letter crinkled sightly in his grip as he tucked it into his sporran, but his hands were steady now. He had a clan to heal, a legacy to rebuild, and a future to forge that would honor both his family’s past, and the people who now depended on him.
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…
“Och, just look at ye! Marriage agrees with ye beautifully, sister!” Isolde’s voice sparkled with genuine delight as she swept Rhona into her arms. “Though I dae believe ye’ve put on a wee bit of weight since the weddin’?”
Rhona’s cheeks flared as she disentangled herself from her eldest sister’s embrace. “Perhaps ‘tis simply the result of finally eatin’ properly again.”
If only ye knew the truth of it, ye would scream, Isolde!
She thought, pressing her hand briefly against her still-flat stomach. The secret she and Ian had discovered just days before their departure burned bright like an ember in her chest, waiting for the perfect moment to be shared.
Ciaran MacCraith stepped towards Ian with a measured grace that had always commanded attention, his dark hair catching the firelight as he extended his hand to Ian. “Wallace,” he said, though his voice held warmth rather than formality. “Welcome tae MacCraith lands. I hear ye’ve been keepin’ our lass well?”
“Better than well, I hope,” Ian replied, clasping Ciaran’s had firmly. His green eyes flickered toward Rhona with such pure adoration that her heart did a little dance in her chest. “She’s made me a better man than I ever thought possible.”
“Flatterer,” Rhona murmured, though she couldn’t suppress her pleased smile.
The great hall of Castle MacCraith was even more magnificent than Rhona remembered. Massive stone pillars soared toward a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of Highland battles, while tapestries depicting the clan’s history adorned the walls in rich reds and silvers. Servants bustled about preparing for the evening feast, their movements choreographed with the efficiency of long practice.
“Come.” Isolde said, linking arms with her sister. “I want tae show ye everythin’ we’ve done since the weddin’. Ciaran’s been lettin’ me have entirely too much say in the household arrangements!” she finished with a laugh.
“Only because yer suggestions make perfect sense in this instance,” Ciaran called after them as they headed toward the solar. “And because ye have excellent taste in tapestries.”
Rhona glanced back to see Ian and Ciaran falling into step behind them, their conversation already turning to matters of defense and trade agreements. Her husband looked more relaxed than she’d seen him in months, the perpetual tension in his shoulders finally eased.
The solar overlooked the famous MacCraith rose garden, now dormant with winter but still beautiful in its structured elegance. Isolde had clearly put her personal touch on the place – embroidered cushions adorned the window seat, books lay scattered on small tables, and dried flowers hung from the rafters, filling the air with the lingering scent of summer.
“Sit, sit!” Isolde commanded, bustling about like a mother hen. “I’ll have Cook send up some refreshments. Ye must be exhausted from the journey.”
“’Twas only a few day’s ride,” Rhona protested, but she settled into one of the comfortable chairs near the fire with relief. The morning sickness had been unpredictable lately, striking at the most inconvenient moments.
“Aye, but ye’ve been travelin’ in winter weather,” Isolde said, her sharp eyes taking in details that others might miss. “And ye look a bit pale, if ye dinnae mind me sayin’.”
Now or never, Rhona.
She exchanged a meaningful glance with Ian. They’d planned to wait until the evening feast to share their news, but Isolde’s instincts were already stirring.
“Well, now that ye mention it,” Rhona said slowly, reaching for Ian’s hand as he took the chair beside her, “there might be a reason fer that.”
Something in her tone made Isolde pause her fussing, her eyes hardening with sudden attention. “What dae ye mean?”
“Well…” Rhona took a deep breath, her fingers tightening around Ian’s. “It seems ye’ll be an aunt come summer, Isolde.”
The silence that followed stretched like a held breath. Then, Isolde let out a shriek of pure joy that probably echoed through half the castle.
“Ye’re with child?” She launched herself across the room to embrace Rhona again, tears already streaming down her cheeks. “Och, that is wonderful! How long have ye kenned?”
“I suspected it,” Rhona laughed, returning her sister’s enthusiastic hug. “But Baird confirmed it just before we left Wallace lands. I wanted tae tell ye in person.”
Ciaran, who had been checking a ledger about supplies shipments he had been discussing with Ian, had turned at his wife’s exclamation. “What’s this all about?” he asked, though his smile suggested he already knew, he just wanted to watch his wife’s mirthful reaction.
“We’re goin’ tae have a wee nephew or niece!” Isolde declared, wiping tears from her eyes. “Can ye believe it? Our Rhona, a maither!”
“Congratulations,” Ciaran said warmly, crossing to shake Ian’s hand. “’Tis wonderful news indeed. The first of the next generation.”
“Aye,” Ian said, his deep voice thick with overwhelming emotion. “I can hardly believe it meself. After everythin’ we’ve been through, this is a blessin’,”
“The babe will be strong,” Rhona said firmly, placing both hands over the still-flat expanse of belly. “With Wallace determination and MacAlpin stubbornness, how could it be any other way?”
“God help us all!” Isolde laughed through her tears. “If the bairn has yer fire and Ian’s sense of justice, they’ll be runnin’ the Highlands before they can walk!”
“Speakin’ of the Highlands,” Ciaran interjected with a meaningful look aimed at Ian, “this child will be born intae quite the legacy.”
“I’ll nae have me blood burdened with our adult concerns before they’ve even drawn breath,” Ian said firmly.
The love that flashed between the new spouses was so pure and intense that Isolde dabbed at her eyes again. “Och, just look at the two of ye…” she whispered. “Ye’re goin’ tae be wonderful parents. “We’ll be celebratin’ fer days.”
“Just promise ye’ll nae let them get too enthusiastic with the toasts,” Rhona said ruefully. “I can barely keep down water some mornin’s, let alone ale.”
“The sickness will pass,” Isolde said knowingly. “I remember when our maither was carryin’ Aileen – she could barely stand the smell of porridge fer months.”
The conversation drifted toward lighter topics – preparations for the baby, potential names, and speculation about whether the child would inherit the MacAlpin red hair or the Wallace green eyes, or both. As the afternoon wore on, Rhona found herself relaxing in a way she hadn’t in months.
“Ye ken,” she said as the sun began to set beyond the solar windows, “when I was imprisoned in the Wallace dungeons, I never imagined I’d end up here… married tae the laird of that same clan, carryin’ his child, surrounded by family.”
“Life has a way of surprisin’ us,” Isolde said finally. “Sometimes in the darkest moments there’s somethin’ that leads tae the brightest futures.”
Later that evening, after the celebratory feast had wound down and the castle had settled into peaceful quiet, Rhona and Ian found themselves alone in the guest chambers Isolde had prepared for them. The room was warm and inviting, with a crackling fire casting dancing shadows on the stone walls and thick furs spread across the massive bed.
“Come here, mo chride, mo ghràdh…” Ian murmured, holding out his arms as Rhona fnished brushing her long ginger hair.
She went to him willingly, settling into his embrace as they sat together on the edge of the bed. His hands came to rest gently over her still-flat stomach, his touch reverent and protective.
“I still cannae quit believe it,” he whispered against her hair. “Our child, growin’ inside ye.”
“Believe it.” Rhona said softly, covering his hands with her own. “In a while, there’ll be a wee bairn callin’ ye Da.”
Ian’s breath caught at the word, and she felt him press a kiss to the crown of her head. “After everythin’ we’ve survived, all the battles and heartache… this feels like the greatest victory of all.”
“Aye, Rhona agreed, leaning back into his warmth. “Who would have thought that the lass Douglas Wallace threw in a dungeon would end up carryin’ the next Wallace heir?”
“The next generation of peace,” Ian corrected gently. “Our child will grow up kennin’ love, nae war. Kennin’ that enemies can become family, that hope can rise from even the darkest of places.”
Rhona turned in his arms, her blue eyes bright with unshed tears of joy. “I love ye, Ian Wallace.”
“And I love ye, Lady Wallace,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion. “Both of ye.”
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
The forest behind the MacAlpin Castle, Scotland, 1659
“Four days, Isolde. Four bloody days without a word.”
Rhona MacAlpin urged her chestnut mare deeper into the borderlands, her voice lost to the wind that whipped through the ancient pines. The forest stretched endlessly before her, shadows dancing between moss-covered trunks as pale morning light filtered through the canopy above. Each hoofbeat carried her farther from the crumbling safety of her father’s keep, and closer to answers she prayed she’d find.
Where are ye, sister?
The familiar ache of worry twisted in her chest as she guided her horse along the narrow deer path. Isolde had vanished after sneaking out to attend the forbidden masquerade at Castle Murray, chasing dreams of catching Laird Ciaran MacCraith’s attention. Four agonizing days of pretending their eldest sister lay abed with fever while their father remained blissfully unaware of the deception.
Rhona’s gloved fingers tightened on the reins. The other sisters – Lorna, Isla, and young Aileen – had begged her not to venture out alone, but someone had to search for Isolde. Someone had to bring her home before their father discovered the truth, and their family’s precarious position crumbled entirely.
If she’s hurt… if something’s happened tae her…
The thought sent ice through Rhona’s veins. She pushed it away, focusing instead on the rhythm of her mare’s gait and the crisp autumn air that bit at her cheeks. Her long, dark ginger braid bounced against her back with each stride. She’d dressed for travel in her plainest brown wool dress and worn riding boots, with her father’s old hunting cloak wrapped about her shoulders for warmth.
A flash of blue caught her eye through the trees ahead – the distinctive colors of Clan MacCraith. Rhona’s heart leaped with hope as she spurred her mare forward, weaving between the towering pines toward the glimpse of tartan.
“Excuse me!” she called out, breaking through the tree line into a small clearing.
But the space stood empty save for a torn piece of fabric caught on a low branch. Rhona dismounted, her boots crunching on fallen leaves as she approached the scrap of blue and silver cloth.
A twig snapped behind her.
Rhona swung around, her hand instinctively moving to the small dagger at her belt. Three men on horseback emerged from the forest, their faces hard as granite beneath shaggy, dirty hair. None wore clan colors she recognized, though their bearing spoke of warriors accustomed to violence.
“Well, well,” the largest man drawled, his scarred face splitting into a cold smile. “What have we here, lads?”
Rhona’s mouth went dry, but she lifted her chin with practiced defiance. “I was just–”
“Aye, what are ye daein’, lass?” The man’s eyes swept over her with calculating interest. “Out here, all alone, searchin’ fer somethin’. Or someone?”
“I’m simply returnin’ home from visiting friends.” The lie came smoothly, though her heart hammered against her ribs. “If ye’ll excuse me–”
“Nae so fast.” A younger man with a jagged scar running from his left ear to his right jaw, urged his horse closer. “Ye wouldnae happen to be a MacAlpin, lass, would ye?”
Ice flooded Rhona’s veins. These weren’t mere bandits seeking coin – they knew exactly who they were hunting.
“I dinnae ken what ye mean.” She backed toward her mare, measuring the distance with desperate calculation.
The tallest of the three laughed, his voice unnaturally deep as it rumbled through the morning air. “Come now, nay need fer games. Red hair, blue eyes, ridin’ alone in MacAlpin territory… I can recognize a MacAlpin sister when I see her.”
Rhona’s voice came out steadier than she felt. “I think ye have me confused with someone else.”
“I think nae.” The leader dismounted with malicious grace, his hand resting on his sword hilt. “Our laird’s been most eager to make the acquaintance of the MacAlpin daughters. Particularly the eldest.”
Laird Wallace.
The realization hit her like a physical blow. Douglas Wallace had been pressuring her father for months, demanding a marriage alliance that would give him control of their vast, but poorly managed, lands. Her father had refused repeatedly, so Wallace was clearly tired of negotiation.
“I told ye, I’m nae–”
“Aye. But ye are.” The man’s smile turned predatory. “The question is… are ye the eldest?”
Rhona’s mind raced. If they believed her to be Isolde, it might buy her sister time – assuming Isolde was even still alive to need it.
“And if I were?” She asked, surprised with her own boldness.
“Then ye’d be comin’ with us tae meet yer future husband.” The leader took another step closer. “Laird Wallace has been most patient, but his patience has limits.”
“I’d rather wed a diseased goat than Douglas Wallace.”
The sarcastic comment escaped before she could stop it, earning harsh laughter from all three men.
“Spirited,” the second man observed. “The laird will enjoy breakin’ that fire.”
Rage flared in Rhona’s chest, burning away the last of her fear. “Ye can tell yer laird that nay McAlpin daughter will ever willingly wed him. Our faither–”
The words escaped her before she could stop them, and ice flooded her veins as she realized what she’d just revealed.
Fool!Ye’ve just told them exactly who ye are.
The leader’s eyes sharpened with triumph, his scarred face splitting into a predatory grin. “MacAlpin, is it? Well, well… Faither’s nae here, is he?” the leader’s voice turned dangerously soft. “Just bonnie old ye, all alone in the dangerous borderlands. Anythin’ could happen tae a lass out here by herself, mind.”
Rhona’s hand closed around the dagger’s hilt as she continued backing toward her horse. “Me faither will hunt ye down like the dogs ye are.”
“All he’ll ken is that his daughter rode out alone and never came home.” The man shrugged. “Tragic accident, that. Wild lands these, filled with dangerous creatures…”
“Aye.” The tall one added with a leer. “Some even walk on two legs!”
Rhona’s back hit her mare’s warm flank. The horse shifted nervously, sensing the tension crackling through the clearing like lightning before a storm.
“Easy, lass,” the leader crooned, as if gentling a spooked animal. “Come quietly now, and no harm will come tae ye. Fight, and… well, the laird prefers his brides unmarked, but he’s nae particular about it.”
Like hell.
Rhona vaulted onto her mare’s back with practiced ease, her skirts billowing around her legs as the gathered the reins. “Give yer laird a message from the MacAlpin clan,” she called out, her voice ringing clear through the forest. “We’d rather see our lands salted and barren than under Wallace rule!”
She dug her heels into her mare’s sides, and the horse leaped forward with a burst of speed that sent leaves and dust scattering in their wake.
“After her!” the leader roared from behind her. “Dinnae let her escape!”
The thunder of hoofbeats exploded through the forest as all three men gave chase. Rhona leaned low over her mare’s neck, urging every ounce of speed from the valiant animal as they wove between towering pines and ancient oaks. Branches whipped past her face, catching at her cloak and hair, but she pressed on with desperate determination.
Faster, girl. We have tae reach the main road.
Her mare’s breathing grew labored as they climbed a steep ridge, foam flecking the animal’s neck. Behind them, the pursuit grew closer – these men rode destriers bred for war, not the lighter horses favored by MacAlpin women.
“There!” one of the men shouted. “She’s headin’ fer the old kirk road!”
Rhona’s heart sank. They knew these lands as well as she did, perhaps better. Every shortcut she might take, they would anticipate.
A crossbow bold whistled past her ear, burying itself in an oak trunk with a solid thunk. Her mare shied violently, nearly unseating her, and precious seconds were lost as Rhona fought to regain control.
“Take her down if ye must!” she leader bellowed.
So much fer unmarked brides.
Rhona yanked hard on the reins, sending her mare plunging down a steep embankment towards narrow stream. Icy water splashed against her legs as they crashed through the shallows, but the treacherous footing slowed their pursuers.
For a moment, hope flickered in her chest. The ridge ahead led to MacAlpin lands proper – if she could only reach the main road, there might be clansmen about, or at least travelers who would bear witness.
Then her mare stumbled. The exhausted animal’s front leg caught a hidden root, sending both horse and rider tumbling in a tangle of limbs and skirts. Rhona hit the ground hard, the breath driven from her lungs as she rolled through damp leaves and moss. Pain exploded through her shoulder where she’d struck a fallen log.
“Get her!” a triumphant shout echoed through the trees.
Rhona struggled to her feet, her head spinning as she fought to orient herself. Her mare lay nearby, sides heaving but apparently uninjured. Around them, the forest seemed to spin as the three men approached on foot, having dismounted to navigate the steep terrain.
“Foolish lassie!” the leader said, though he sounded more amused than angry. “Could’ve broken yer pretty little neck with a fall like that.”
“Perhaps next time ye’ll listen when yer betters speak,” the second man added.
Rhona’s hands found her dagger, and she drew it with shaking fingers. The blade caught the dappled light filtering through the forest canopy, though she knew it would do little good against three armed warriors.
“Stay back,” she warned, though her voice trembled with exhaustion and pain.
“Or what? Ye’ll prick us with that wee blade?” The youngest man laughed. “Come now, dinnae make this harder than it needs tae be.”
“I told ye. I will never go willingly.”
“Who said anythin’ about willingly?”
The leader lunged forward with startling speed. Rhona flung her arm around wildly with her dagger, feeling the blade bate flesh as the man cursed and jerked back. Blood welled from a shallow cut across his forearm, staining his sleeve crimson.
“Ye wee vixen!” He backhanded her across her pale face with stunning force.
Stars exploded across Rhona’s vision as she crashed to the ground, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard the dagger clatter away into the underbrush.
“That’s fer drawin’ blood,” the man snarled, cradling his wounded limb.
“Careful,” the scarred man warned. “The laird wants her in one piece.”
“Aye, but a bruise or two willnae matter.” The leader grabbed Rhona’s arm, hauling her roughly to her feet. “She’ll learn to mind her manners soon enough.”
Rhona’s legs trembled beneath her as the world swayed dangerously. Blood trickled from her split lip, and her cheek throbbed where his had made contact. Still, she managed to lift her chin with the last dregs of defiance.
“Me faither will come fer me,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Aye, perhaps he will.” The leader’s grip tightened painfully on her arm. “But by then, ye’ll be wedded and bedded, and there’ll be naught he can dae about it.”
The crude words sent waves of revulsion through her, but Rhona forced herself to remain upright. She wouldn’t give these animals the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.
“Mount up,” the leader commanded his men. “We’ve wasted enough time chasin’ this wildcat through the forest.”
They hauled her toward their horses with rough efficiency. The tall man boosted her onto his destrier, climbing up behind her and wrapping one strong arm around her waist to prevent escape. The position left her trapped against his chest, his breath hot and foul against her neck.
Rhona tried memorizing their route as they began to ride. Every landmark, every turn – if she ever got the chance to escape, she would need to know the way home.
The journey passed in a blur of discomfort and growing dread. Her captor’s grip never loosened, and the leader set a punishing pace that left no opportunity for rest or second thoughts. They avoided the main roads, following hunter’s tracks and deer paths that would leave no trace for potential rescuers to follow. As they rode on, the familiar forests of her childhood gave way to wilder, more desolate terrain. This was Wallace territory – lands she’d heard described, but never seen. Rocky outcroppings replaced the gentle hills of home, and the very air seemed to carry a different scent.
“There,” the leader pointed ahead with his uninjured arm. “Castle Wallace.”
Rhona’s heart sank as the fortress came into view. Unlike her family’s crumbling keep, this stronghold radiated power and menace. Massive stone walls rose from a craggy hilltop, their surfaces darkened with age and weather. Banners snapped in the wind above the battlements, displaying the Wallace colors in stark reminder of whose domain this was.
God above help me.
The gates stood open as their small party approached, guards stepping aside with casual familiarity. Clearly, this was not the first time these men had brought unwilling ‘guests’ to their laird’s attention. They clattered into the courtyard, where servants scattered like startled birds. Rhona found herself hauled down from the horse and marched through corridors that seemed designed to intimidate – high ceilings, cold stone walls hung with weapons and battle trophies, and everywhere the sense of barely contained violence.
“Wait here,” the leader commanded as they reached an enormous set of oak doors banded with iron.
Rhona stood between two of her captors, trying to project dignity despite her torn dress and disheveled appearance. Her shoulder ached from the fall, and she could still taste blood from her split lip, but she refused to show weakness to whatever monster awaited beyond those doors.
Suddenly, the door swung open with ominous creaking.
“Laird Wallace,” the leader called out as they were ushered into a great hall dominated by a massive fireplace. “We’ve brought ye a prize.”
The man who rose from the chair before the fire was nothing like Rhona expected. Douglas Wallace was tall and lean, rather than brutish, with iron-gray hair and cold blue eyes that seemed to strip away pretense with a single glance. He might have been handsome once, before cruelty had carved permanent lines around his mouth and eyes.
“Have ye now?” His voice was cultured, almost pleasant. “And what manner of prize have me faithful hounds retrieved?”
“A MacAlpin lass, me laird. Found her ridin’ alone in the borderlands, bold as brass.”
Those pale eyes fixed on Rhona with calculating interest. “And which MacAlpin daughter graces me hall?”
Rhona lifted her chin, meeting his stare with all the defiance she could muster. “I am Rhona MacAlpin, second daughter of Laird MacAlpin. And I demand ye release me immediately.”
Wallace chuckled, circling her slowly, like a predator evaluating prey. “Demand?” He jested, pausing directly in front of her. “I was hoping tae meet yer elder sister. The heir, as it were.”
“Isolde is–” Rhona caught herself before revealing her sister’s disappearance. “Isolde is well protected at our family’s keep.”
“Is she?” Wallace’s smile was winter-cold. “How disappointin’. I had such hopes fer a profitable marriage alliance.”
Relief flooded through Rhona. If he wanted Isolde specifically, perhaps he would simply release her as worthless to his plans.
“Since yer nae the bride I was expectin’,” Wallace continued, “I suppose ye’re of little use tae me…”
Hope flared in her chest.
“Still,” he mused, tapping one finger against his thin lips, “second daughters have their value. A backup bride, as it were, should something happen tae the first one.”
The hope died as quickly as it had bloomed.
“Take her tae the dungeon,” Wallace commanded with casual indifference. “See that she’s fed enough to keep her alive. We wouldnae want damaged goods, should I need tae use her as leverage.”
“Nay!” Rhona lunged forward, only to be caught by rough hands. “Ye cannae dae this! Me faither will–”
“Yer faither will negotiate reasonably fer his eldest daughter’s hand, or he’ll find himself with one less bairn to worry about.” Wallace had already turned away, dismissing her as easily as he might have done away with a bothersome insect. “Either way, the MacAlpin lands will be mine.”
As the guards dragged her from the hall, Rhona’s last glimpse was of Douglas Wallace settling back into his chair with the satisfied air of a man whose plans were proceeding exactly as expected.
The dungeon lay deep beneath the castle, accessible only through a maze of narrow stone corridors that seemed designed to crush hope along with the spirit. With each step she took downward the air became cooler, taking her further away from light, from freedom, from any possibility of rescue. The air felt damp and her breath misted in small clouds before her face.
“Home sweet home,” one of the guards said with mock cheer as he unlocked a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands.
The cell beyond was small and dark, furnished only with a thin straw pallet and a bucket that served purposes she preferred not to contemplate. A tiny, barred window high in one wall provided the only light – a dim gray square that spoke of approaching evening.
“Sweet dreams, lassie,” the guard leered as he shoved her inside.
The door slammed shut with awful finality, followed by the scrape of the heavy bar falling into place – sealing her fate. Rhona found herself alone in the dimness, surrounded by stone walls that seemed to press closer with each passing moment.
She sank onto the stone pallet, finally allowing tears to fall now that no one could witness her weakness. Four days ago, her greatest worry had been Isolde’s mysterious absence. Now her sister might be dead, and Rhona herself faced a future as either Douglas Wallace’s unwilling bride, or a bargaining chip in his quest for MacAlpin lands.
What have I done?
Outside her tiny window, the last light of day faded into darkness, and Rhona MacAlpin settled in to wait for whatever dawn might bring.
Chapter Two
Three months later, Castle Wallace
“How long has she been down here?”
The unfamiliar voice drifted through the stone walls like a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman. Rhona stirred from her huddled position on the straw pallet, blinking against the sudden torchlight that spilled through the bars of her cell door. After all that time in that cursed dungeon, she’d grown accustomed to the steady rhythm of her captivity – thin gruel twice daily, emptying of the waste bucket once a week, and blessed silence between the guard’s infrequent visits.
But this voice was different. Deeper than the guard’s, with an authority that made her skin prickle with awareness.
“Three months, maybe more, me laird,” came the nervous reply the guard.
Me laird?
Rhona pressed herself against the cold stone wall, straining to hear more.
“And nay one thought to inform me that we were holdin’ a prisoner?”
The edge of displeasure in those words sent a strange flutter through Rhona’s chest. She’d heard variations of that tone from her father when he discovered incompetence among his men, but this voice carried something different – a quality that spoke of controlled power.
“We… we thought ye kent, Laird Wallace. The previous laird said she was important… fer negotiations.”
Laird Wallace.
Rhona’s heart pounded with confusion and fear. Previous laird? What had happened to Douglas? And who was this man who now commanded with such quiet authority?
“Open it.”
The command was quiet, but it carried the weight of absolute authority. Rhona heard the scrape of the heavy bar being lifted, then the creak of ancient hinges as her cell door swung wide.
Torchlight flooded the small space, forcing her to shield her eyes with one trembling hand. Through the brilliant haze, she made out a tall figure silhouetted in the doorway – broad shoulders that filled the frame, confident stance, and an indefinable presence that seemed to be on the verge of consuming all the air in the cramped cell.
“God’s blood,” the voice breathed, and now she could hear the shock in it. “What have they done tae ye, lass?”
Rhona lowered her hand slowly, squinting against the light as her vision adjusted. The man before her was nothing like Douglas Wallace. Where the former laird had been lean and cruel, this one possessed the powerful build of a Highland warrior in his prime – all corded muscle and masculine strength that made her suddenly acutely aware of her own fragility. Dark brown hair caught the light with hints of auburn, and when their eyes met, she found herself drowning in the greenest gaze she’d ever seen – like deep, mossy forest pools touched by summer sunlight, framed by thick, dark lashes that only enhanced his rugged appeal.
Saints preserve me, he is magnificent.
The treacherous thought slipped through her defenses before she could stop it. Even in her weakened state, she couldn’t ignore the way her pulse quickened at the sight of him, her treacherous body responding to pure masculine magnetism. He was perhaps her own age, with strong features carved by some divine sculptor – a straight nose, firm jaw darkened with stubble, and lips that were neither too full nor too thin, but perfectly shaped for…
Stop.
She forced her wayward thoughts back to safer ground. He was tall enough that she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes, his presence overwhelming in the small space. Battle scars decorated his thick forearms and hands like badges of honor – evidence of countless fights survived – while tattoos wound around his left bicep. But there was something in his expression that spoke of honor rather than brutality, a gentleness in those remarkable eyes that made her stomach flutter with dangerous awareness.
“Who are ye?” she whispered; her voice rough from disuse.
“Ian Wallace.” He stepped into the cell, his powerful frame making the space even smaller. His scent enveloped her – leather and pine mixed with something uniquely male that made her pulse race and her skin prickle with awareness. The way he moved spoke of a predator’s grace, all controlled strength and lethal capability, yet when those green eyes fixed on her, she saw only gentle concern. “I’m the new laird of this clan.”
“New?” The word escaped her before she could stop it. “What happened tae Douglas?”
Something flickered in those green eyes – pain, perhaps or regret. “He fell in battle. I’ve inherited… this mess.”
“Another Wallace.” Bitterness crept into her voice despite her weakness. “Come to gloat over yer predecessor’s prize?”
“I’ve come tae understand why a lass is wastin’ away in me dungeon that I never kenned existed.”
The gentle tone caught her off guard. In her three months of captivity, no one had spoken to her with anything approaching kindness.
“What’s yer name, lass?” he asked softly, crouching down to her level.
Rhona hesitated, but something in his manner made her want to trust him.
“Rhona.”
“Just Rhona?” His lips quirked in what might have been a smile. “Nay clan name?”
She said nothing, watching him warily. Douglas Wallace had known exactly who she was and why she was valuable. This new laird’s ignorance might be her only advantage.
Ian seemed to sense her reluctance. This close, she could see the fine lines around his eyes that spoke of a man who’d spent his life squinting against sun and wind. A small scar bisected his left eyebrow, and his shirt stretched taut across his broad chest with each breath. Heat radiated from his body, and she found herself fighting the insane urge to lean closer, to seek the warmth and strength he represented.
“Fair enough. Can ye tell me why ye were imprisoned?”
“Ask yer men. I’m sure they’ll spin ye a fine tale.”
“I’m asking ye.”
The simple statement, delivered without threat or demand, nearly undid her, but she did not answer him.
“Christ.” Ian scrubbed a hand through his thick hair. She noticed that his fingers were strong and capable – a swordsman’s hands, yet gentle when they’d gestured toward her. The urge to reach out and touch him, to verify that such masculine perfection was real, shocked her with its intensity. “Ye’re highborn?”
It wasn’t a question. Her manner of speech, despite months of deprivation, still carried the refined cadence of noble upbringings.
“Daes it matter?”
“Aye. It matters.” He stood abruptly and the full effect of his height and breadth hit her anew – he had to be at least six feet of solid muscle and masculine appeal. When he turned slightly, she caught a glimpse of more tattoos snaking down his back beneath the white shirt. Her mouth went dry at the thought of tracing those patterns with her fingertips. “Though, high born or nae, nay one deserves tae be treated like this.”
For a moment, his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her mouth dry.
“Tristan!”
Ian’s most trusted advisor and council member materialized suddenly, clearly having stayed within earshot. “Aye, me laird.”
“Send word tae the kitchens – I want a proper meal served immediately. Hot food, fresh bread, and clean water fer a bath.”
Rhona’s stomach clenched at the mention of food. Three months of thin gruel had left her considerably thinner than her already petite frame could afford.
As he hurried off, Ian turned back to her. “We’ll get ye cleaned up and fed, then we’ll decide what’s tae be done.”
Once they reached the servant’s stairs, Ian turned to a young servant girl who had appeared as if summoned. “Moira, help the lass wash up proper. See that she has everythin’ she needs.”
“Aye, me laird.” Moira bobbed a quick curtsy. “Right away.”
As Ian departed, Rhona found herself led to a chamber she’d never expected to see – guest quarters with a proper bed, clean linens, and a fire crackling in the hearth. The transformation from the dungeon felt like stepping into another world.
“I’ll prepare a nice hot bath fer ye, miss.” Moira said cheerfully, bustling about the room. “Ye’ll feel much better once ye’re properly clean. Let me just fetch the soap and towels from the stores.”
The moment Moira’s footsteps had faded down the corridor leaving her alone, Rhona moved. This might be her only chance at freedom. Her heart hammered as she slipped from the chamber, bare feet silent on the cold stone floors.
She remembered the way from her arrival – down the wide corridor, past the great hall, through the courtyard. The castle seemed different now, less oppressive, but she pushed such thoughts aside and focused only on escape.
’Tis now or never!
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she slipped from the chamber, every instinct screaming at her to move quickly before someone discovered her absence. The corridor stretched endlessly before her, shadows dancing in the flickering torchlight. Each step felt like a thunderclap in silence, though her bare feet made barely no sound on the cold stone floors.
Dinnae look back,Just keep movin’. Get tae the forest.
She fled through the corridors like a wraith, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps as she navigated the maze of passages. Past tapestries that seemed to track her escape, past doorways that might hide guards, past everything that represented her captivity. The night air hit her face as she burst through a side entrance, cool and sharp with the promise of freedom.
The courtyard stretched ahead in the gathering dusk, torches flickering in their sconces. The main gates were impossible, but beside them she spotted a smaller postern door. She threw herself against it – and miraculously, it opened. Someone had left it unbarred.
In the distance, the dark line of forest called, promising concealment.
“Rhona!”
Ian’s voice echoed behind her, filled with concern rather than anger. She didn’t look back, breaking into a desperate run down the rocky slope leading toward the forest. Her torn dress tangled around her legs, but she gathered the wool and pressed on, her weakened body trembling with the effort.
“This way,” Ian’s voice carried on the evening wind. “She’ll head fer the forest.”
The dark line of trees offered her only hope of concealment. Rhona plunged into the woodland, branches catching at her hair and dress while her red hair matted against her pale skin. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she stumbled through the underbrush, torchlight flickering behind her through the trees.
She stumbled to a halt, her breath coming in ragged wasps, when she spotted armed figures between the trees ahead – at least six men wearing tartans she couldn’t recognize in the dim light. As she struggled to see, Ian emerged from the shadows with his men flanking him, their weapons drawn but not threatening.
“Easy, lass,” his voice was gentle despite the chase she’d led him in. “Nay one wants tae hurt ye.”
“Stay back,” she panted, though the world swayed dangerously around her. “I’ll nae go back tae that dungeon!”
“Ye willnae.” Ian held up his hands peacefully, those green eyes filled with understanding. “I gave ye me word. But these lands are crawlin’ with enemies who’d show ye far less mercy.”
As if summoned by his warning, harsh voices erupted from the darkness around them. The same figures she had spotted before, materializing between the trees – at least six men wearing tartan she couldn’t recognize, their faces hard with violent intent.
“Ian Wallace,” their leader snarled. “Perfect timing.”
Ian’s sword was in his hand instantly, his men forming a protective circle around Rhona with practiced efficiency. The gentle laird vanished, replaced by a warrior whose very presence radiated lethal capability.
“MacPherson,” Ian said, his voice deadly calm. “Ye’re trespassin’ on Wallace lands.”
“Am I?” The man’s hand rested on his sword hit with obvious threat. “Last I heard, these lands were in dispute. Poor Douglas died so unexpectedly, and there’s been such confusion about succession…”
“The king settled that matter. I suggest ye remember it, Lachlan.”
“Oh, I remember many things,” the MacPherson warrior’s gaze fixed on Rhona with a calculating interest that made her skin crawl. “Including arrangements that might still be honored by more legitimate claimants to these lands.”
Steel rang against steel as the first enemy lunged forward. Ian moved like liquid lightning, his blade singing through the air as he parried and struck with lethal precision.
Saints preserve me,he fights like a pure force of nature.
His powerful frame flowed from one deadly motion to the next, muscles rippling beneath his shirt as he spun and slashed. Even in the heat of battle, there was something almost beautiful about the way he moved – like a deadly dance choreographed by the gods themselves. The sound of his breathing, slow and steady despite the violence surrounding him, sent an unexpected thrill racing through her veins
How can he be so calm?How can he be so controlled when death might be only inches away?
Around them, the fight erupted in deadly earnest as Ian’s men engaged the attackers. The clash of metal on metal filled the air, punctuated by grunts of effort and cries of pain. But Rhona found herself unable to look away, transfixed by the graceful, predatory way Ian moved – every step calculated, every strike devastatingly effective. Ian’s sword slit one of the men’s arm, and Rhona found herself watching with wide eyes.
Ian fought with the grace of a born warrior. He moved like water, his sword seeming to anticipate his opponent’s attacks. Two MacPherson men fell to his blade with quick succession, their lives ending in a bloody splatter as Rhona shut her eyes against the gruesome sight.
“Fall back!” the MacPherson leader shouted. “This isnae over, Wallace!”
The surviving attackers melted back into darkness as swiftly as they’d appeared. Ian turned to Rhona immediately, his green eyes scanning her for any sign of injury. “Are ye hurt?”
She shook her head mutely, overwhelmed by the violence she’d witnessed.
“We need to get back to the castle,” he said urgently, his hand finding her arm with gentle, but implacable strength. “These lands are overrun with enemies seeking to exploit the chaos Douglas left behind.”
“Good,” Rhona said before she could stop herself, “’Tis good that yer enemies are closing in.” The words escaping her lips like a confession before exhaustion claimed her.
Ian went very still. In the flickering torchlight, she watched understanding dawn in his remarkable eyes, followed by something that looked almost like disappointment.
“Aye,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I suppose it would be… if ye carried hatred fer everythin’ Wallace.”
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…
