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.”
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