The wind howled through the crooked lanes of a MacLean border village, tugging at the threadbare shawl of a small girl as she darted between leaning stone cottages and slanted wooden carts. The late autumn sky hung low, gray and heavy, casting a dim pall over the rough cobbled streets. Mud splashed with every desperate step Alexandra took, her bare feet stinging from the cold and sharp stones beneath.
She was nine, small for her age. Thin to the point of worry. Her brown hair streamed behind her in tangled waves, and her wide, frightened eyes glinted blue beneath the grime streaking her cheeks. Her dress was little more than a torn shift, patched at the shoulders and fraying at the hem. But she ran with the kind of panic that lent wings to even the frailest frame.
“Stop her!” a gruff voice bellowed behind her.
She didn’t look back. Couldn’t. Her breath came in ragged gasps, the thud of boots behind her growing louder, closer. The men’s shouts echoed off the buildings, stirring dogs to bark and doors to creak open just enough for wary eyes to peer out.
Her chest ached, her legs burned, but still she ran—down one alley, across a cluttered square, over a low stone wall into someone’s vegetable patch. A startled hen squawked and took flight as she tumbled into the dirt, scrambled up again, and fled.
“There! Behind the stables!”
Tears welled in her eyes, hot against the raw chill of her cheeks, but she blinked them back with sheer determination. Crying would only slow her, and she couldn’t afford a single heartbeat of hesitation. Her breath tore in and out of her lungs, ragged and wheezing, every inhale burning in her chest. She pushed her legs harder, faster, even as the muscles screamed in protest, even as her arms flailed for balance.
Her vision blurred as dizziness crept in, the edges of the world smudging like charcoal on wet parchment. She cut around the edge of the stables, heart pounding in her throat—only to feel her foot land unevenly on a patch of frozen mud.
Her ankle twisted sharply with a sickening jolt, and pain lanced up her leg. She pitched forward with a gasp, hitting the ground hard, scraping her palms raw against the gravel. For a moment she lay there, dazed and breathless, blinking at the sky.
“Nay!” she screamed as she tried to crawl, her fingers clawing at the earth, but it was too late. Rough hands seized her arms and yanked her upright.
She kicked and twisted in their grip, but her energy was spent, her tiny frame shaking with cold and fear.
“Nay!” she screamed, kicking and flailing.
“Hold still, ye wee beast!” one of the men growled, lifting her off the ground as she writhed in his grip.
“Let me go!” she cried. “I didnae dae anythin’! I didnae!”
She thrashed in his arms, but her strength was gone. Her breathing was shallow, lips pale, and even the man holding her paused at the tremble of her limbs.
“Best bring her tae Duncan,” the other man said. “He’ll know what tae dae or he will consult the laird.”
And just like that, her fate changed.
They carried her, still struggling weakly, through the village and up the road toward the MacLean keep. Her limbs were shaking, her head drooped against the man’s shoulder, but her eyes remained open, wide and watchful.
At the gates, the guards let them pass with only a glance, and the men entered the great hall, muddy boots tracking dirt across the worn stone floor. The space was vast, shadowed by hanging banners and lined with benches. At the far end sat a tall man in a dark green tunic, his cloak fastened with a brooch bearing the MacLean crest.
Duncan MacLean.
The men approached, stopping a few feet from the man. They dropped Alexandra none too gently to her knees.
Duncan leaned forward. “When did ye last eat, lass?” he asked.
Alexandra didn’t respond. Her lips moved but no words came. After a long moment, she shook her head.
Duncan straightened slowly. “See that she’s fed. Properly. Bathed. And get that leg seen tae.”
“Maister?” one of the men asked.
“She’s nae vermin,” Duncan said, his voice cold and final. “She’s a child.”
And with that, Alexandra was lifted again—but this time, gently. Her head lolled against the man’s shoulder as they turned to carry her down the corridor, toward warmth, food, and something she had not known in as long as she could remember: care.
Behind them, Duncan stood for a long moment, watching the door through which they’d gone. Then he turned to one of his stewards. “Make sure the kitchens prepare something hot, something filling. And find a maid with a soft touch—she’ll need more than just soap and bandages.”
The steward nodded quickly and left, and Duncan sat back down with a sigh, the weight of responsibility already shifting with the presence of one small, beaten child who, by sheer chance or fate, had landed on his doorstep.
Somewhere deep down, he already knew—this girl was going to change everything.
***
The warmth of the kitchen wrapped around her like a blanket, thick with the scent of stew and fresh bread. Alexandra sat on a bench at a long wooden table, her legs swinging just above the floor, a woolen blanket draped over her narrow shoulders. Before her sat a bowl of porridge, still steaming, and a heel of crusty bread slathered in fresh butter.
She didn’t wait.
With trembling hands, she snatched up the bread and tore into it with ravenous haste, crumbs spilling onto her lap, the butter smearing across her fingers. She devoured it with the urgency of someone who didn’t know when her next bite might come. The porridge followed—each spoonful hastily shoveled, too hot but she didn’t care. She ate like she feared someone would take it away.
A soft knock sounded, and the door creaked open.
Duncan MacLean himself stood in the threshold, tall, composed. At his side was a small, graceful girl with fair hair tied back in a neat braid, her eyes bright with curiosity and a soft smile curving her lips.
“This is me niece, Lady Margaret MacLean,” Duncan said, his voice calm but carrying a gentle authority. “And this,” he added, gesturing toward the small figure seated at the table, “is Alexandra. She’ll be stayin’ with us now.”
He gave the two girls a final look—part warning, part blessing—and then stepped back, pulling the door closed behind him and leaving them alone to get acquainted.
Margaret approached slowly, her head tilted as she studied Alexandra. “Ye eat like a wild fox,” she said, but her tone was light, teasing rather than cruel.
Alexandra, still chewing, blinked up at her warily, unsure whether to be embarrassed or defensive.
Margaret sat beside her, folding her hands in her lap. “I’d have done the same. The bread’s too good nae tae.”
And just like that, the tension ebbed—just a little.
Margaret grinned, her smile widening with a warmth that didn’t feel forced or noble—it felt real. “Well then, Alexandra. I suppose ye and I are tae be friends now.”
Alexandra blinked, unsure how to respond. Friends? She’d never had one before. Not really. Not the kind that sat beside you instead of jeering from a distance. Not the kind who smiled like they meant it.
“Have ye always lived here?” she asked, voice barely more than a whisper, her fingers still wrapped tightly around the crust of bread as if it might vanish.
Margaret nodded. “Aye, all me life. Though I dream of leavin’ sometimes. Of travelin’. But Da says I talk more than I plan.”
Alexandra looked down, a shy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I dinnae think that’s bad.”
Margaret leaned in a little, as if sharing a secret. “Da also says I collect stray creatures. Cats. Birds with broken wings. Now ye too, it seems.”
Alexandra’s brows furrowed.
“I dinnae mean it badly,” Margaret added quickly. “Only… maybe ye’ve landed where ye were supposed tae. Maybe ye needed someone tae look out fer ye.”
Alexandra studied her for a long beat, something tender and unfamiliar swelling in her chest. And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like running.
Before she could find the words to respond, a maid stepped lightly into the room, her expression apologetic but firm. “Pardon, Lady Margaret. Maister Duncan would like tae speak with Alexandra.”
Alexandra paused, then carefully set down her spoon. She rose without hesitation, smoothing her hands over her skirts.
Margaret touched her arm gently. “Ye’ll be fine. He’s gruff, but kind. Go on, I’ll be here when ye come back.”
Alexandra nodded slowly, then offered a quiet goodbye before sliding from the bench. She followed the maid out of the warm kitchen, her heart thudding in her chest as she made her way toward the great hall once more.
But instead of being taken back to the cavernous room where she’d first met Duncan, she was led through a quieter corridor and into a smaller, fire-warmed chamber lined with bookshelves and a single long table. Duncan MacLean stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back.
He turned at her approach, his gaze not unkind. “Come, sit,” he said, gesturing to a chair by the hearth.
Alexandra sat, her legs swinging nervously above the floor again, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
Duncan took the seat across from her, studying her with a calm that made her fidget even more. “How are ye feelin’? Truly.”
She hesitated. Then, in a small voice, “Warm. And full.”
His mouth twitched. “Good.”
They sat for a moment in the crackle of the fire before he leaned forward, his voice lowering. “I’ll nae pretend this is a usual thing tae ask of a child. But I need yer help, Alexandra.”
She blinked, uncertain.
“There’s danger stirring,” Duncan continued. “Men who mean me family harm. The laird, and more specifically, me niece, Margaret. She must be hidden, and the priory is the safest place fer her now. But we cannae risk her identity being known, nae even there. So, she will go as someone else.”
He gave Alexandra a pointed, thoughtful look.
Alexandra’s mouth parted slightly, confusion and disbelief knitting across her features.
“We’ll send ye both tae the priory,” Duncan said, his tone measured. “But nae as ye are now. Margaret will go as ye—and ye will go as her. It would only be fer a time, long enough tae shield her from those who seek tae harm us. Ye’ve her coloring, her frame. If anyone can make everyone believe she’s Margaret, it’s ye.”
“Pretend tae be her?” Alexandra whispered.
“Aye.”
“And if they find out I’m nae?”
Duncan’s eyes were grave. “That’s why we’ll teach ye. Train ye. Ye’ll be safe there, too. Safer than out in the streets.”
Alexandra was silent, absorbing it all, her thoughts racing.
He leaned forward, softening his tone. “Ye’ve got fire in ye, lass. I saw it the moment they brought ye tae me. Help us, and we’ll protect ye like one of our own.”
And just like that, her story began to twist in a new direction.
Two days later, Alexandra stood awkwardly in the center of Margaret’s room, her arms lifted as a pair of maids bustled around her with bolts of fabric, pins, and silken ribbons. Dresses in fine wool and soft linen were laid out across the bed, each one in shades of deep green, blue, and russet—colors Alexandra had never worn, never even imagined for herself.
She stared at her reflection in the polished glass of a standing mirror, stunned by the transformation taking shape. The dress she wore fit snugly at her waist, the sleeves embroidered with delicate threads that shimmered in the light. It felt strange on her skin—too fine, too clean, too not-hers.
Across the room, Margaret was also being tended to, her hair unbraided and re-pinned in a simpler fashion, her fine clothes replaced with plainer garments to match the role of a humble girl.
“They’ll never believe this,” Alexandra muttered, turning slightly.
Margaret laughed softly. “They’ll believe it if we believe it. Ye must walk like me, talk like me. I’ll help ye. I promise.”
Alexandra glanced at her, uncertain. “What if I ruin it? What if they see through me?”
Margaret crossed the room and took her hands gently. “Ye willnae. And even if ye stumble, I’ll be right there tae catch ye. That’s what friends dae, aye?”
Alexandra’s eyes shone with something fierce and unspoken. “Then I’ll protect ye too. I swear it.”
The girls stood there a moment, hands clasped, the bond between them sealed not by blood but by something just as strong: trust.
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 winding road to the priory was quieter than Alexandra remembered. Snow still clung to the trees in patches, slowly melting beneath the weak spring sun. Callum rode beside her, one hand guiding the reins, the other reaching out occasionally to brush his fingers against hers as if needing the constant reassurance that she was still there.
The journey had been long, the anticipation longer.
They were finally returning to the place where it had all begun—where Margaret had been hidden, where Alexandra had lived a lie, and where so many truths had come undone.
But when the familiar stone arch of the priory walls came into view, unease pricked at the base of Alexandra’s neck. Something was off. There was no smoke curling from the chimneys, no voices echoing across the courtyard. The air was too still.
As they dismounted and stepped through the main gate, a young nun greeted them, her face pale and pinched.
“We’ve come to see The Prioress,” Alexandra said quickly, her voice catching on the name she’d once hated.
The nun’s eyes darted between them, lingering on Alexandra with visible recognition. She took a slow breath and gave a hesitant nod. “Of course… please, come with me.”
She led them through the quiet stone corridors, the weight of the silence pressing on all sides, until they reached the Prioress’s chambers. The older woman rose from her writing desk as they entered, and her eyes widened slightly as they landed on Alexandra.
“Lady Margaret,” she said, voice low and reverent, dipping her head. “Child, we heard such awful rumors—there were reports of the Mackenzies being attacked, of ye being taken. Are ye well? Have ye been harmed?” Her eyes shifted to Callum, and her recognition was immediate.
“Laird Mackenzie,” she said warmly. “We owe ye our survival. And more than that—we owe ye Margaret’s life. Twice now, it seems, ye’ve been the shield between her and danger. Thank ye again fer what ye did that day—and fer what came after.”
The Prioress’s words tumbled out in a flurry, her hands fluttering as she stepped forward, eyes wide and searching.
Alexandra took a slow breath, then turned her gaze to Callum. He met her eyes with a subtle nod, grounding her.
She turned back to the Prioress. “There’s something I need tae tell ye, Prioress” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “And it’s a long story.”
The Prioress blinked in confusion. “I… I dinnae understand.”
And so they told her. Slowly, carefully, Alexandra and Callum laid out the truth—how Alexandra and Margaret had switched identities, she calling herself Margaret and the real Margaret being called Alexandra… how the deception had been meant to protect the real Margaret from enemies who sought to harm the MacLeans. They explained the switch, the days spent in hiding, the weight of living a borrowed life.
The Prioress listened without interruption, her expression a careful mask of shock and dawning understanding. When they finished, she exhaled softly, folding her hands before her.
“All this time… I truly believed ye were Margaret,” she said, voice distant. “She played her role just as well.”
Alexandra nodded, her voice tight. “We both did what we had tae.” She paused for a moment, the memories flickering behind her eyes, then added more softly, her gaze steady on the Prioress, “We’ve come because… I’m Lady Mackenzie now. Callum and I were wed nae long after the battle ended. It was a quiet ceremony, but one filled with more love than I ever thought I could hold.”
The Prioress’s expression tightened, her brows drawing together as if the very act of empathy were a battle she hadn’t expected to face. She studied Alexandra, not with warmth, but with a critical gaze that carried the weight of old judgments. It was as though she were still piecing together how the wayward, stubborn girl she’d once chastised now stood before her clothed in nobility.
Alexandra, undeterred, pressed on, her voice lowering with emotion. “I only wish Margaret could have been there,” she said, her gaze unwavering. “We shared so much, the two of us. She was me strength when I had none, me guide when I was lost. I never imagined taking that step into a new life without her beside me.”
She swallowed hard, blinking back the sudden sting in her eyes. “That’s why we’ve come. Tae find her. Tae tell her everything. The truth, our truth, and tae share the joy we’ve begun to build. She deserves tae ken.”
The Prioress’s expression shifted, but rather than sorrow, it was a sharp, assessing look that flickered in her eyes. Her mouth pressed into a thin line as she studied Alexandra. “Well… Alexandra, or rather, Margaret isnae here.”
Alexandra blinked. “What dae ye mean she’s nae here?”
“She vanished the morning of the raid,” the Prioress said softly. “When the men came and the chaos spread, many scattered. Some of them returned but Margaret never did. Nay one has seen or heard from her since.”
A silence stretched across the room, heavy and stunned. Alexandra stared at the woman in disbelief, her lips parting but no words coming. She turned slightly, her hand tightening around Callum’s.
“She’s… gone?” Alexandra whispered, the word nearly catching in her throat.
“We prayed she found safety,” the Prioress said curtly, her tone lacking the softness one might have expected. “But the truth is—we dinnae ken if she did, and that’s all there is tae it.”
Alexandra stood frozen, her eyes wide and unblinking, her mouth parted slightly as if trying to form a question that wouldn’t come. The revelation settled like a stone in her stomach, her limbs stiff, her breath caught somewhere in her chest.
Callum glanced at her, concern darkening his features. When she still didn’t speak, he stepped forward, his voice low but steady. “Thank ye, Prioress, fer yer honesty.”
The Prioress gave a shallow nod, her mouth tight, already turning back toward her desk as if dismissing them with the same coldness she had always wielded. Callum gently placed a hand on Alexandra’s back, guiding her away as her eyes lingered on the woman who had once ruled her world with judgment and silence.
The corridor outside felt colder somehow, heavier. Alexandra walked in silence, her hand still in Callum’s, her mind whirling with the weight of everything she’d just learned.
“She cannae just be gone,” she murmured as they stepped into the cloister’s shadow. “Nae without a trace.”
She slowed her steps, her voice dropping even lower. “That day… after ye found me in the woods, when we returned tae the priory—I looked for her, Callum. I came back inside while everyone was distracted. I checked the corners, the chambers, the courtyard… but she was naywhere.”
Callum’s brows drew together, though he kept silent, letting her speak.
“I told her tae run,” Alexandra whispered, her throat tightening with the memory. “Told her tae get tae safety. And when I couldnae find her afterward, I assumed she did just that. I thought she’d return once things settled. I thought she’d come back here tae the Priory like we agreed.”
She stopped walking, her feet heavy, her eyes burning with the weight of realization. “But she never did. And I should have said something. I should have raised the alarm that very night. Instead, I waited. I waited and I hoped.”
Callum turned to her fully, reaching to take both her hands gently in his. “Ye did what ye thought was right, Alexandra. Ye trusted her tae survive. Ye had faith in her.”
Her gaze met his, pain flickering behind her eyes, eyes brimming with the guilt she had carried silently. “But what if she didnae? What if I was wrong?”
He brought her hands to his lips and kissed them gently, lingering. “Then we’ll find out. Together. I promise ye, we’ll keep lookin’. She’s out there somewhere, Alexandra. I can feel it in me bones. Maybe she just got lost. Maybe she’s still findin’ her way back. But she’ll come. She’ll find her way tae us. I ken it.”
She said nothing at first, letting his words settle around her, their warmth sinking into the cold place in her chest. Slowly, the tension in her shoulders eased, her fingers curling tighter around his as she leaned forward to rest her forehead against his.
“Come,” Callum said, his voice softening. “Let me take yer mind off things fer a bit. I’ve got somethin’ fer ye. A surprise.”
“A surprise?” she asked warily.
He gave a crooked smile. “Aye. Trust me.”
Still holding her hand, he guided her toward the stables, his thumb brushing slow circles over her knuckles, anchoring her. They moved in tandem, no rush in their steps, as if prolonging the moment could soothe the ache still lodged in her chest. Once mounted, they rode side by side down the winding road that had once carried them into uncertainty and new beginnings. Now, it carried them into something else—something softer, more certain.
The quiet stretched between them, not awkward, but restful, their shared silence speaking more than words could manage. Alexandra leaned closer into Callum’s side as the spring breeze brushed against her cheek, carrying the faintest scent of blooming heather.
When the first rooftops of the familiar village came into view, Alexandra sat straighter, her brows drawing together as recognition dawned.
“This place…” she murmured, eyes sweeping across the lane, the stone arch, the line of trees just beyond the bakery.
Callum glanced sideways at her, a half-smile pulling at his lips. “The same town we stopped at on our way tae Mackenzie land. Figured it was time we made new memories here. Better ones.”
Just beyond the village square, the sounds of laughter, music, and cheerful clamor greeted them. Bright fabric stalls fluttered in the breeze, and the scent of sweet pastries and roasted meat filled the air. A fair had sprung to life just as it had on their last visit, though this time the air felt lighter, freer.
Alexandra’s face lit up, her eyes wide with surprise and delight. “There’s a fair! Just like that night!” she exclaimed, glancing over at Callum. “Only this time, I can dance with ye without some overly eager lass tryin’ tae steal all yer attention.”
Callum chuckled, dismounting with ease before offering his hand to her. “Ah, so ye did notice that?”
She took his hand, sliding gracefully from the saddle. “Of course I noticed,” she said, grinning up at him. “I couldnae tear me eyes away from the two of ye, nay matter how hard I tried.”
Callum pulled her close, a playful glint in his eyes. “I only paid attention tae that woman because I couldnae pay attention tae the one I truly wanted. Ye were standin’ there, lookin’ like the only thing that mattered in the whole bloody world, and I couldnae so much as look at ye the way I wanted.”
Her eyes sparkled with mischief, the jealousy that once tugged at her heart now fully eclipsed by joy.
“Well,” she said with a smirk, “now there’s naethin’ stoppin’ ye.”
“Aye,” Callum murmured, brushing a kiss against her cheek. “And now there’s nay one else in the world I’d rather dance with.”
With laughter in their steps and music rising around them, the two of them slipped into the crowd, joining the dancers beneath strings of lanterns and ribbons. Just like that second night they’d spent together, they moved as if they’d always belonged—two hearts beating in perfect time, weaving a memory neither would ever forget.
As they danced, Alexandra leaned into him, her breath warm against his ear. Her voice was barely above a whisper, thick with emotion and anticipation. “I have a surprise fer ye too, husband,” she murmured, her smile playing at the corner of her lips.
Callum’s brow quirked in curiosity, his gaze flicking to hers, searching her face for a clue. But she only tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mischief and something deeper, something tender.
She slid her hand into his, fingers lacing with his for a beat before she gently pulled his palm toward her, placing it flat against her belly. Her eyes never left his.
For a moment, Callum stood still, unmoving, confused. Then his eyes widened, realization blooming across his features like sunlight cresting the edge of a mountain.
“Are ye—?”
She nodded, and the smile that broke across her face was radiant and uncontainable.
Callum cupped her face, awe and warmth etched into every line of his expression. He rested his forehead against hers, their dance slowing to a soft, swaying rhythm as the fair twirled around them.
“Gods, Alexandra… We’re going tae have a bairn?”
“Aye,” she whispered, her voice thick with happy tears. “We are going tae have a bairn.”
They stood together in the midst of swirling music and spinning laughter, wrapped in a moment that felt outside of time. Around them, the fair continued in vibrant color and joy, but for Alexandra and Callum, the world had narrowed to a single heartbeat—one that now pulsed from deep within her, a promise of the future they would build together, hand in hand, heart to heart.
Callum kept his hand over her belly, his thumb moving in small, reverent circles. “A bairn,” he whispered again, his voice filled with awe. “I never thought anything could make me happier than marryin’ ye, but this…”
Alexandra smiled, her heart brimming. “Ye’ll be a wonderful faither, Callum.”
He chuckled, then lifted her hand to kiss her knuckles. “Let’s hope the bairn takes after ye, then. Smart, kind, and with just enough fire tae keep me on me toes.”
She tilted her head, mock offended. “And what if they take after ye, hmm? Fierce, stubborn, and convinced they’re always right?”
“A dangerous combination,” he said with a grin. “Especially if it’s a lass.”
“I think it will be,” Alexandra said softly.
Callum raised a brow. “I say it’ll be a lad.”
Alexandra laughed. “We’ll see, me love. But either way… it’ll be ours.”
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 1
North Berwick Priory, 1646
The bells tolled their usual mournful song, a sound that had once made Alexandra flinch. Now, it barely stirred her. What did make her stir, rather violently, was the sight of Lady Margaret MacLean snoring into her pillow, blissfully unaware that she was ten minutes late for prayers.
Alexandra threw back the threadbare curtain surrounding the cot and leaned in close. “Margaret, if ye dinnae get up this instant, I swear on all the saints, I’ll pour this basin over yer head.”
Margaret groaned, rolling onto her back. “Ye’re bluffin’.”
“Aye?” Alexandra lifted the washbasin from the stand with both hands and tilted it just enough to let a droplet fall. It splashed against Margaret’s forehead. The girl shrieked.
“Saints preserve me!”
Alexandra grinned, setting the basin down with exaggerated care. “Sweet morning tae ye, too, Lady Margaret.”
Margaret groaned again, this time with more theatrical flair, and sat up. “Ye ken, sometimes I think ye enjoy this too much.”
“Only sometimes?.”
They moved quickly now, slipping into their coarse wool habits and fastening the simple rope belts at their waists with practiced ease. Alexandra adjusted Margaret’s veil, her fingers deft and a little rough as she tucked the last strands of hair beneath the stiff linen coif. Margaret, still muttering under her breath, reached over to smooth Alexandra’s wimple into place.
It was an odd kind of intimacy they’d developed over the years. A sort of friendship, with one girl living as the other’s shadow. Alexandra had never once let Margaret take a punishment meant for her, and Margaret, in return, never questioned Alexandra’s orders. Not when it counted.
When they stepped into the main corridor, the mask slipped into place. Other girls greeted them… “Morning, Alexandra,” to Margaret, and “Lady Margaret,” to Alexandra. It had taken years for Alexandra to answer to the wrong name without flinching. Now, it was second nature, it fit like an old boot. Too worn to replace. Too snug to shake off.
Sometimes she wondered if she’d ever answer to her real name again, if she would ever truly remember who that girl had been.
***
The sun hadn’t yet chased the chill from the air, and the harsh cold of the priory clung to the stone like a stubborn curse. Alexandra pulled her shawl tighter as they made their way to the courtyard garden. Chores awaited, as always; back-breaking, finger-numbing, soul-wilting chores.
“Dae ye think they’ll ever stop punishin’ us fer a war we didnae start?” Margaret asked as they reached the weed-choked beds.
Alexandra crouched beside a patch of stubborn thistle. “If they dae, what would the Prioress dae with all that spare time? She might have tae find joy in her life. Imagine that horror.”
Margaret snorted. “Blasphemy.”
They worked side by side, knuckles grazing dirt, silence settling between them like old cloth. Other women joined them, some cloistered, others like them, temporary ghosts in the church’s care. The scent of wet soil and morning dew clung to the air. Birds chirped cautiously, as though they too feared the wrath of the Prioress.
Margaret had been assigned to laundry duty that morning, but as always, she’d wandered back over to gossip. Alexandra gave her a sideways glance as Margaret sank to her knees beside her in the garden.
They looked enough alike that most didn’t question it. Same chestnut-brown hair that frizzed in the damp, same pale skin that the sun hadn’t touched in years, same quick mouth and stubborn chin. But where Margaret’s eyes held softness, curiosity, mischief, Alexandra’s had learned how to guard themselves. How to flinch without moving.
It had worked too well. They’d played the parts for so long that no one questioned who was who anymore.
Not even Margaret.
But Alexandra would guard that secret with every fiber of her soul, not out of fear, but because she owed Margaret more than she could ever repay. Margaret’s family had placed her there to be hidden, but in doing so, they’d saved Alexandra too. Without that twist of fate, Alexandra would’ve died cold and forgotten in some alley. Instead, she’d been given a name. A bed. A second chance.
And in return, she’d made herself into Margaret’s shadow. Her shield.
“Did ye hear about Sister Brigid and the cook?” Margaret snapped Alexandra out of her reverie, “I swear on the Virgin’s toes, I saw her sneak two tarts right into her habit yesterday.”
Alexandra snorted under her breath. “If ye’re caught idle again, they’ll hang ye up by the heels and make ye sweep the bell tower. And ye ken ye shouldnae swear.”
“Oh hush, ye always fret like an old maid. Besides, I like yer company better.”
Alexandra arched a brow, her voice a low mutter. “Flattery willnae save ye when the Prioress––”
“Alexandra!”
The voice cracked through the garden like a whip.
Margaret scrambled to her feet. Alexandra rose with her, shielding her instinctively.
“Back tae yer post,” the Prioress snapped. “This is the third time ye’ve been caught slackin’.”
Margaret ducked her head and fled.
The Prioress turned her flint-hard gaze on Alexandra but said nothing. She didn’t need to. Alexandra lowered her eyes and resumed her weeding.
She hated the Priory most in those moments. The endless watching. The judgment. The fear carved into every corner of the stones. She remembered too well the last time Margaret had been found gossiping instead of working. Alexandra had taken the blame, claimed she’d asked for help. She’d scrubbed the chapel floors for a week, knees blistered, palms raw.
Even now, she didn’t regret it. It was what she was brought there to do: protect Margaret. And she’d do it again.
As she toiled, the sharp clap of footsteps echoed behind her. Alexandra didn’t look up, she didn’t need to.
Margaret.
She could never stay away when there was a tasty morsel of gossip to be shared. She crouched down beside her, a tinkle already making its way to the corner of her eyes.
“Lady Margaret,” The Prioress. barked, voice like a whip crack, she had come back. “That root bed should’ve been cleared by now. Or are ye waitin’ fer divine intervention tae weed it fer ye?”
She turned to Margaret “What are ye still daeing here?”
Margaret startled, fumbling her grip on a spade she had quickly grabbed.
Alexandra straightened, dirt-streaked and tired. “It was me fault, Prioress. I asked fer her help tae work the roots properly. I’m nae used tae thick thistle.”
The Prioress narrowed her eyes. “Ye speakin’ fer her now, Lady Margaret?”
“Just takin’ responsibility fer me own actions, is all.”
“Hmph.” The woman turned her stare on Margaret, who wisely kept her eyes low. “I’ve half a mind tae send ye both scrubbing the privy tiles.”
Alexandra stepped forward, chin high. “Aye, then best send me alone. She’s—”
She stopped herself. Nearly too late.
“She’s sensitive tae the smell, she will faint again, is all.”
The Prioress stared long and hard before muttering a prayer under her breath and walking off.
Margaret exhaled shakily. “Ye didnae have tae dae that.”
“Didn’t I? One more minute of her glare and ye’d have burst into tears and confessed yer lineage.”
Margaret grimaced. “I was fine.”
Alexandra smiled, returning to her weeding. “Of course ye were. Brave as a lion.”
But her hands trembled as they returned to the soil. The Prioress’s words, the memory of beatings long past, settled like frost in her bones. She’d learned young what happened to girls who couldn’t hold their tongues, and younger still what happened when ye tried to defend someone who didn’t understand the cost. A crow called from the chapel roof, ominous and loud.
Alexandra’s knees throbbed with every shift of weight, her palms blistered and raw beneath layers of grime, and her back pulsed with a dull, angry fire. But still, she worked. Because that was the only thing she’d ever known how to do.
Life had never offered her softness. No silks, no soothing words, no shelter from the storm. It had offered her bruised knuckles, an unyielding will, and the stubborn marrow-deep grit to survive. She had learned young that comfort was not a gift, it was a gamble. One she’d lost too many times to count.
So now, even the smallest mercies felt like riches. A clean room. Warm porridge in the morning for her aching belly. Walls of stone thick enough to mute the biting wind that had chased her while she was on the streets. A bed with a blanket…
That one I say me hail Mary fer every day.
Here in the priory, these things were more than blessings. They were currency.
She had only just returned to her duties, delicately weeding the herb garden, when she heard it.
The thunder of hooves.
Not one. Not two. Too many. They came fast and hard, descending the hill like a wave of fury.
Alexandra’s spine stiffened. Her fingers curled tighter around the spade as her head jerked up, eyes straining toward the priory gates.
Men.
The kind of men whose arrival never brought good.
A chorus of drunken shouts echoed after the hooves, rough, slurred, aggressive. There was steel in those voices. And spit. And something worse… intent.
Her breath hitched.
Nay. Saints, nay. Nae again. Nae like last time. Please, nae like last time.
That time had been bad enough, three men from the nearby town, slurring and shoving, trying to rip open barrels and find something worth taking. But they’d been stupid. Loud and easily frightened off by the sudden arrival of the village watch.
But this, this was different. Alexandra could feel it in her bones. There were more of them now.. And no one was coming.
The priory had no guards, no gates that could truly hold. Just prayer, stone walls, and women. That was all.
Then came the sound.
The creak of iron hinges being forced. And then, a slam.
A voice, deep and coarse, cut through the air like a blade. “Where’s the silver, ye holy crows?” “Where’s the gold ye hoard fer yer saints?”
Crash. A barrel toppled.
Crash. A shelf splintered. Glass shattered. A loud scream pierced the air.
Sister Mary?
Alexandra dropped the spade. It hit the dirt with a dull thud. Her hands trembled, but her legs wouldn’t move. She stared, wide-eyed, toward the cloister arch, her body locked between instinct and horror.
Two of them appeared. One was rummaging through sacks of grain, hurling them aside like garbage. The other was laughing, a wet, sloshing sound, as he kicked open a storeroom door. They smelled of ale, sweat, and something sharper… desperation.
One had a rusted sword. The other, a length of chain, wrapped tight in his fist.
“There’s naught here,” one of them spat. “Same as last time.”
The second man’s smile curved like a knife. “Then we take something else.”
And then he looked up. His gaze swept the courtyard like a predator searching for movement.
“The girls.”
Alexandra felt the words before she processed them, felt them lodge in her spine like an arrow. Her blood went cold.
Her legs moved to the sound before a single thought pierced the loud ringing in her ear. She ran.
Her sandals slapped against the stone as she sprinted for the chapel corridor, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.
She found Margaret by the entry arch, frozen, eyes wide and unblinking. She must have ran for safety in the midst of the chaos. Two younger girls clung to her robes like frightened lambs.
“Come on! We have to move!” Alexandra hissed, grabbing her by the wrist.
Margaret blinked as if waking from a trance. “Wh-what’s happening?”
“They’re here fer us. Nay time. Run!”
The sounds behind them grew louder… shouts, crashes, footsteps gaining speed.
Alexandra yanked Margaret forward, dragging the three girls into motion. They bolted across the courtyard, dodging buckets, leaping over basins, the wind slapping against their faces, slicing into their skin.
Her lungs burned. Her legs screamed. But she couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop.
Then, through the haze of panic, an idea struck her. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t safe. But it was all they had.
Margaret’s face was white from the wind. “What dae we dae?”
“Ye run back the other way. Now. Find Sister Agnes and get inside,” she ordered breathlessly. “I’ll draw them away. Run.”
“Nae without ye.”
Alexandra’s glare was sharp. “If ye stay, they’ll take both of us. Now move.”
The two other girls veered with her. Alexandra ran the other way. Into the woods.
Her body screamed in protest. Her mind spun with panic. But she had to lead them away. She was used to running anyway. Used to being hunted.
But this time, she didn’t have the cover of a city or the anonymity of streets. It was just trees, air, and her.
A root caught her boot and she tumbled, knees slamming hard into the earth. Pain burst through her legs. Blood smeared her shins. She gritted her teeth and pushed up. Cannae stop now.
She had run farther in worse shoes, from worse men. She’d clawed her way through alley fights, gutters and alleys that stank of piss and blood, nuns with cruel hands. She’d be damned if this was where it ended.
Keep going. Just keep going.
Let them chase her. Let them all chase her. As long as Margaret got away.
The world spun, the forest a blur of green and dark.
Please, let them chase me.
A hand caught her hair, yanked hard.
She screamed, but the sound was quickly muffled as a filthy palm clamped over her mouth. The stink of rot and sour ale flooded her senses.
She bucked and thrashed, scratching wildly, her fingers gouging at his skin, her knee trying to find purchase. He cursed and wrestled with her. She bit down on his hand. He yelped, loosening his grip, just enough.
Now!
She turned sharply and slammed her foot into his shin, then drove her elbow into his gut with every ounce of strength she had left.
He staggered, gasping.
Alexandra broke free. Her legs trembled, her lungs burned. She was dizzy with fear, with rage, with pain.
But she ran.
Behind her, the man roared. She heard him crashing after her again.
Nay. Nay, nay, nay… just let me make it. Let me reach the trees.
Something heavy struck her from behind. She collapsed onto the forest floor, air punched from her lungs.
The man grabbed her again, snarling this time. “Ye’ll fetch a fine price, girl.”
He began to drag her backward through the dirt, his grip rough, tearing at her gown.
Terror burst like thunder in her chest. That was it. Alexandra clawed at the earth, fingernails raking through mud and stones. She kicked, twisted, her limbs wild with desperation. Screamed until her throat tore raw, until the sound broke and failed her entirely.
And then…
Silence.
A shadow fell across her, long and unmoving. Something, or someone, loomed above.
The grip vanished.
Her body sagged in sudden release. She gasped and rolled, coughing, blinking up at the shape now standing between her and her attacker.
Still, she fought, refusing to be still, refusing to be helpless. She pushed up on shaky arms, crawled, staggered to her feet… and slammed into something solid.
A man, a mountain of one.
He didn’t stumble. Didn’t sway. Just stood there like the world had built itself around him and refused to go on without his permission.
His chest was broad beneath his worn, dark cloak, stone beneath fabric, and a sword hung long across his back, catching the dim light with a hungry gleam. But it wasn’t the weapon that struck her, it was the way he moved: not like a soldier or even a warrior… but something more dangerous.
He moved like death in human skin. Calm. Purposeful. Inevitable.
Alexandra’s breath caught, a fluttering thing in her chest.
Who in the devil’s name…?
He turned from her without a word and faced the man who had tried to drag her off.
“That one’s mine,” he said, voice low and measured.
The words barely echoed, but they reverberated in her bones. There was a strange beauty to his voice. A Highland burr, deep and grainy like it had been carved from the land itself. It sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with fear.
Her attacker snarled, drawing a blade from his belt. A short, jagged thing.
But the tall man didn’t flinch… he moved.
Saints preserve us.
One second he was still, and the next he was all brutal, fluid motion. The chain that had swung toward him was caught mid-air, twisted, yanked, and the man who held it stumbled forward, off-balance, right into a fist that cracked across his jaw with a sickening crunch.
The second blow came from nowhere, a boot to the gut that folded the thug in half. And then, steel.
The sword hissed free like it knew what it wanted.
A blur. A twist. A scream cut short by the wet sound of flesh meeting blade. Then… a thud. A body hitting earth, heavy and final. And stillness.
The other attackers had vanished, scattered like ash in the wind. Behind her, she thought she saw more men, armed, armored, sweeping the courtyard. But her eyes wouldn’t leave the one in front of her.
The man turned slowly and looked at her.
Her breath hitched again, but for another reason entirely.
Sweet Mary, he was…
Handsome wasn’t the word. There was nothing soft or pretty about him. But he was striking in a way that made her stomach twist, dark hair swept back from a face carved in harsh, angular lines, a scar along his jaw that only made him more dangerous. A man built for war. For blood and fire. And God help her, she felt her knees weaken, not from fear this time, but something far more foolish.
No, no, not now. Not this. She clenched her jaw, forced her thoughts to obey. But her heart, her traitorous heart, still beat too fast.
He stepped closer. The scent of leather, steel, and something wild and clean wrapped around her. He tilted his head.
“Lady Margaret MacLean?”
Alexandra blinked.
Of all the rotten luck in the world.
Chapter 2
Her breath stalled in her throat.
Margaret? He thinks I’m…
The thought tangled in her mind, spinning like leaves caught in a storm.
Her lips parted, instinct kicking in to correct him, but the words barely escaped before he was already moving. He stepped closer, purposeful but not rushed, and reached out to cup her elbow like he thought she might run.
And she might’ve. If her knees hadn’t chosen that moment to betray her. The strength left her all at once, legs crumpling beneath her. She pitched forward…
He caught her without strain. Like catching her weight was no more trouble than picking up a cloak.
“Easy, lass,” he murmured, his voice a gravel-soft blend of command and quiet reassurance.
That voice. It was wrong how steady it made her feel. Warm. Calloused fingers pressed firm against her arm, grounding her, anchoring her. She should’ve pulled away. She didn’t.
He dipped his head slightly, peering into her face. “Ye’re safe now. I promised yer faither I’d bring ye home.”
Home. The word coiled around her like a noose. She blinked up at him, the world lurching sideways. Her father? Home? Her mouth had gone dry. Her thoughts raced.
He means Margaret’s father. Margaret’s home.
His eyes were sharp, watching her. Not cruel, not leering… but intent. Searching. As if he expected her to shatter at any moment.
“Who…?” she whispered, her voice barely working. “Who are ye?”
The man hesitated for only a breath, then inclined his head in something like a formal bow, tight, reserved. “Laird Callum Mackenzie,” he said, the name rolling off his tongue like it carried weight, like it meant something.
It did. She could feel it in the way he said it, grounded, noble, and not to be questioned.
“Yer faither sent word weeks ago,” he continued, watching her closely. “Told me tae find ye. Bring ye back.”
Bring Margaret back. That’s why he’s here.
Dinnae deny it. Nae yet. You dinnae ken who he is. Or what he wants with her.
“Where… back where exactly?” she managed, forcing the words through her muddled thoughts. “Where are ye taking me?”
His brow dipped, just slightly. “The Highlands. North of Glen Torran. The keep’s nae far from the MacLean lands.”
She swallowed hard. That meant nothing to her, but maybe it would to Margaret.
His grip was still on her elbow, steadying her. His scent curled around her, and to her horror, it made her dizzy.
He’s strong. Dangerous. And he thinks I’m someone else. Someone important.
And right now, the only way to protect that someone was to stay in character so she didn’t correct him. Didn’t tell him her real name. Didn’t even blink.
Instead, she nodded faintly, lips parted, heart thundering.
“Right,” she murmured. “Of course.”
But her mind raced with a single question:
How long can I keep this up before he finds out who I really am?
Pain throbbed in Alexandra’s knees as she stood, wavering, skirts torn and caked with blood and earth. Her lungs burned. Her limbs shook. But all she could see was him, the stranger, broad-shouldered and iron-still, the moonlight catching on the edge of his sword like a whisper of danger.
He hadn’t moved since he’d helped her to her feet. He stood with the same quiet authority, watching her like a man who didn’t blink often. Like a man used to being obeyed.
She had to tread carefully.
She lifted her chin, forcing steel into her spine. “How did ye ken I am Margaret?” she asked, her voice rough but steady.
The man didn’t answer at once. He just looked at her.
His eyes were a stormy blue, unreadable but sharp, and they watched her like she was a puzzle he was already halfway to solving. The weight of it made her skin prickle. Alexandra’s mouth went dry.
Finally, he spoke, voice low. “I heard the others shoutin’ after ye. Margaret, they said. Loud enough tae stir the dead.”
He took a step closer, as if to examine her more fully. “And ye match the description. Chestnut hair. Blue eyes. The jaw of a girl who doesn’t yield easy.”
She kept her breath even. Swallowed the denial rising in her throat. Her name sat on the edge of her tongue, but she didn’t speak it.
Nae yet. Nae until I ken what he wants with Margaret. Margaret is out there somewhere. I have tae find her. I have tae keep her safe.
She forced a nod. She had to know more, to know if he was truly sent by the MacLeans or if this was all a lie.
“So we’re going north,” she said confidently, like she didn’t already feel the ground tilting beneath her. “Tae what end?”
His expression didn’t shift. “Tae keep ye safe.”
“And once I’m there?” she asked. “What then?”
It took him a moment to answer. “There’ll be a wedding.”
The words hit like cold water.
“A wedding,” she repeated, her voice nearly catching.
“Aye. An alliance. MacLean and Mackenzie.”
She paused, then frowned. “Why nae send MacLean men? Surely that would’ve been the proper way of it.”
Something flickered in his eyes, wry amusement, maybe.
“Aye,” he said. “Traditionally, ‘Tis the way of it. But this alliance isnae traditional.” He paused. “The MacLeans thought it wiser nae tae send their own, too many enemies scattered in the glens, too many eyes watchin’ the roads. Me family’s ties run deep enough, and we’ve fewer enemies in this stretch of the Highlands. They trusted me tae see ye delivered.”
Alexandra said nothing, the weight of his words pressing down on her like cold water.
An alliance through marriage. Margaret would be pleased.
“So I’m tae be married,” she said, quieter now.
He nodded. “That’s the arrangement.”
A wedding. A union between clans. A future that belonged to the girl she was pretending to be, not to her. Alexandra swallowed hard, trying to keep the panic from rising. What if Margaret was still running? Still hiding? What if she was lost or hurt, or worse?
I’ll find her. I have tae.
Her fingers curled tightly into her skirt. “And this alliance,” she said carefully, “I suppose I’ve nay say in it?”
His gaze didn’t shift. “There’s nay time. The Lowlands aren’t safe. The longer we linger, the more men will come.”
Not an answer. Not really.
She was trembling now, not from pain, not from exhaustion, but from everything else. Still, she kept her back straight. A stranger’s keep in the far Highlands. And she was walking into it under another woman’s name.
God help me. What is tae happen tae me?
She said nothing more, watching him as the wind hissed through the trees. Her thoughts churned.
Where was Margaret now? Had she truly escaped? Was she still running? Alexandra’s chest tightened.
Please, let her be safe. Let her get back tae the nunnery. I’ll find her. I’ll make this right. I’ll trade places again. I just need time.
But she couldn’t find her if she was dead. And Callum Mackenzie, for all his silence and stone-faced strength, hadn’t hurt her.
He turned slightly and nodded toward the tree line. “Can ye ride?”
Ride? I can barely walk.
She nodded anyway. Laird Mackenzie gave a sharp whistle, and from the shadows emerged a tall black stallion, led by one of his men. Three others followed, cloaked and armed.
He mounted first, then extended a hand. “Ye’ll fall if ye try yerself.”
Alexandra’s heart hammered. But she slipped her hand into his anyway. His grip was strong. He lifted her easily, swinging her up before him on the saddle. The warmth of his chest pressed against her back. His arms braced on either side. His breath close to her ear.
“Ride,” he commanded. The forest blurred around them as hooves struck earth.
Alexandra said nothing. She held her posture tight, eyes fixed ahead, the weight of a lie sitting like a stone in her chest.
She was not Margaret MacLean. But for now, she had to be.
And pray she found the real one before it was too late.
They rode in silence at first. Alexandra sat stiffly, fists clenched in her lap, spine straight as a rod. The night air bit at her cheeks, but the heat of Laird Mackenzie’s body behind her was worse, unsettling in its steadiness. His breath stirred the curls near her temple, and every so often, she felt his gaze shift, as though he were studying her profile in the dark.
She couldn’t keep quiet much longer. Not if there was a chance to fix this. Not if there was any hope of saving Margaret.
He hasn’t hurt you. He could’ve but he didn’t. He protected you. He might protect her too.
She licked her dry lips, bracing herself. “Laird Mackenzie, I must tell ye something,” she said, her voice low. “I’m nae who ye think I am.”
He didn’t react at first. Just kept his eyes forward, posture loose but alert.
“I’m nae Margaret MacLean,” she continued, the words tumbling out now, tight and panicked. “She was one of the other girls. We escaped together… I stayed behind tae draw them off. That’s why I was still there. That’s why they were shouting her name.”
Her heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the rhythm of the horse beneath them. “I never meant tae deceive ye. I only, I thought ye might mean her harm. I thought… I didnae ken who ye were.”
Silence stretched between them, long and suffocating. She risked turning her head slightly, to glance at him over her shoulder.
Laird Mackenzie’s expression was unreadable. Not angry, but watchful.
“I see,” he said at last.
She blinked. “Ye believe me, then?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, with a faint furrow of his brow, he said, “Ye waited some time tae tell me that.”
Her breath caught. “I didnae ken if I could trust ye!”
“Aye,” he said. “And now I dinnae ken if I can trust you.”
That stung.
“I’m telling the truth,” she said quietly. “I swear it.”
He didn’t soften. “Maybe ye are.”
Her mouth opened in protest, but no words came.
Finally, he added, “If ye insist on it, I suppose the sisters at the priory will ken who’s who.”
Alexandra swallowed hard, knowing full well that none of the sisters knew the truth. There was only one person who knew the truth, Margaret’s uncle, and he was not there.
“Aye,” she whispered.
***
By the time they reached the priory gates, the chaos had begun to settle. Laird Mackenzie’s men had stayed behind after the attack, scattering the remaining bandits and helping to re-secure the grounds. Smoke still hung faintly in the air, mingling with the scent of trampled herbs and cold stone.
Laird Mackenzie rode through the priory gates like he belonged to them. His men followed behind, silent shadows, nodding curtly at the women they passed. Alexandra sat stiffly in front of him, her spine straight, her hands cold in her lap.
He dismounted first and offered his hand again. She hesitated for a moment before taking it. Her feet barely touched the ground before the Prioress swept forward, her habit rustling like dried leaves. Her face was pale, wind-bitten, but her eyes were sharp and steady.
“Lady Margaret,” she breathed, reaching out like she meant to gather Alexandra into an embrace. “Thank the Lord ye’ve returned unharmed.”
Alexandra flinched. Her stomach twisted.
“Prioress…”
Laird Mackenzie stepped forward. “Prioress,” he said with a respectful nod, his voice firm but courteous. “Callum Mackenzie, son of Laird Malcolm Mackenzie. I was sent by Laird MacLean tae escort Lady Margaret north, as arranged.”
The Prioress blinked, then inclined her head with solemn recognition. “Laird Mackenzie. Aye… we received word some days ago that a representative may come, though we didnae expect ye so soon.”
“I arrived when I was needed,” he said simply. Then reached inside his cloak and withdrew a sealed letter. “Me orders. From her faither.”
The Prioress accepted the parchment, turning it in her hands, eyes catching on the MacLean seal. She nodded again, slower this time, before folding it and tucking it into her sleeve.
“Ye’ve done us a great service, Laird Mackenzie. Without yer men, this place may have burned. We’re grateful fer yer protection. And fer finding our girl.” Her gaze slid to Alexandra, warm but watchful.
Laird Mackenzie gave a modest dip of his chin. “I was glad tae offer help. Yer women held their ground better than most trained men I’ve kent.”
A faint flicker of pride softened the Prioress’s mouth. Alexandra stood frozen between them, words rising again in her throat. “Prioress, I’m afraid ye’ve made a mistake—”
But the woman was already turning away, her tone brisk and final. “Come. We must speak inside.”
Alexandra turned to Laird Mackenzie, her heart pounding but he, too, was already moving. Around them, nuns moved with hushed reverence, thanking Callum and his men with murmured blessings and shy nods. A few glanced at Alexandra, their expressions proud and relieved.
She tried one last time.
“I told ye. I’m not who…”
“I heard ye,” Laird Mackenzie said without looking at her. “I just dinnae believe ye.”
She turned sharply to face him. “Why?”
He studied her, unreadable. “Because ye protest too much. And yet, ye’ve nae run. And if ye’re nae Margaret, then where is she?”
In here somewhere, hopefully. I need tae find her.
She paused. Took a breath. She needed an opportunity to be alone. To search around the priory without the watchful eyes of Callum on her.
“If I must go with ye,” she said quietly, “may I at least pack me things?”
He regarded her for a long beat. Then nodded. “Be quick.”
She dipped her head, then slipped away down the cloister hall.
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…
“Riders approaching the gate! Clan MacCraith banners!”
The guard’s voice echoed across the courtyard of Castle MacAlpin, carrying clearly through the open windows of the great hall, where nineteen-year-old Isolde MacAlpin sat mending her sisters’ gown by the morning light. Her needle paused mid-stitch as curiosity sparked in her chest.
MacCraith. I ken that name. Faither has spoken often of how powerful the clan is.
Isolde remembered quite well. A powerful Highland clan from the eastern mountains. Not allies and not enemies, their paths rarely crossed.
Pricked by curiosity, she set aside her needlework completely. What would bring them to MacAlpin lands? It must be something important for them to make a journey.
Isolde moved toward the window, peering down at the courtyard below. A small party of riders was approaching—perhaps six men, all mounted on fine horses and wearing the green and blue plaid of Clan MacCraith. At their head rode a figure that made her freeze mid-motion.
Even from a distance, there was something about the perfect line of his shoulders, the confident tilt of his head, the effortless grace with which he controlled his mount. As they drew closer to the castle gates, Isolde found herself leaning forward, trying to make out more details.
I should go downstairs.
Her hands moved automatically to smooth the wrinkles from her skirts, then flew to her hair to check that no wayward curls had escaped her morning arrangement.
As the eldest daughter, it would be proper for her to act as hostess until her father appeared to greet their guests. She could already see herself walking sedately to the great hall, offering the traditional Highland welcome with perfect courtesy and grace—exactly as her mother had taught her.
She took a step toward the door, then stopped.
Who are ye foolin’ lass? Better to observe from a distance until ye can compose yerself.
Isolde pressed herself against the window frame, her heart hammering for reasons she couldn’t quite name. The lead rider dismounted with fluid grace, and as he handed his reins to a waiting stable boy, he turned toward the castle entrance.
That was the moment Isolde’s world tilted on its axis. She had never seen a man so beautiful. Not handsome in the rough, weathered way of Highland warriors, but beautiful in a way that made her think of ancient heroes from the stories her nurse used to tell.
The fine wool of his MacCraith plaid was expertly tailored, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the lean strength of his frame. His dark hair was longer than fashion dictated, pulled back with a leather cord that somehow made him look more roguish than civilized. But it was his bearing that truly impressed her—the way he moved through the hall as if he owned it, not with arrogance but with the quiet confidence of a man accustomed to command.
But there was also something in the way he moved—a natural authority that spoke of command earned, as well as inherited. When he gestured to one of his men, the movement was economical, precise, like a blade cutting through air. Every step he took spoke of barely leashed power, of a man who knew exactly who he was and what he was capable of.
“Sweet Mary, maither of God,” Isolde whispered to herself. “Is he the MacCraith laird?”
As if summoned by her intense gaze, the stranger looked up. For one heart-stopping moment, their eyes seemed to meet across the distance. His gaze was startlingly green, even from her perch, and Isolde felt pinned in place like a butterfly on a collector’s board. Heat flooded her cheeks as she realized she was staring quite openly, her face pressed to the window like some lovesick girl in a ballad.
Which is exactly what ye are daeing.
She jerked backward, pressing herself against the stone wall beside the window, her heart racing. Had he seen her? Or was she imagining things? Either way, she was making a fool of herself.
A few moments passed before she dared to peek around the window frame again. The stranger was speaking with one of the castle guards, his attention focused on whatever directions he was receiving. His profile was just as devastating as his full face—the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the elegant length of his neck where it disappeared into the collar of his fine linen shirt.
Isolde realized she was holding her breath and forced herself to exhale slowly.
This is ridiculous.
She was a MacAlpin, daughter of a Highland laird, not some village maiden swooning over the first handsome face she’d ever seen. She’d been to court in Edinburgh, had danced with earls and charmed ambassadors. Men were not mysterious creatures to her.
The sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor behind her made her jump. She spun around to see her father’s steward, Malcolm, hurrying past with an armload of ceremonial goblets.
“Begging yer pardon, Lady Isolde,” he puffed. “Yer faither’s asked fer the good silver tae be brought out. We’ve important guests, it seems.”
“Is that MacCraith clan?” she asked, trying to sound casual despite the strange breathlessness that had overtaken her.
“Aye. MacCraith delegation, me lady. Come tae speak with yer faither on clan business.” Malcolm paused, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Led by the young laird himself, from what I hear. Ciaran MacCraith—they say he’s quite the warrior, and clever as well. Took over clan leadership when his faither died three years back, and they’ve prospered under his rule.”
Ciaran MacCraith.
The name sent an odd little thrill through her. So he was a laird, which explained the natural authority she’d observed. But he looked so young—surely not much older than her own twenty-one years?
“Is he accompanied?” she found herself asking.
Malcolm’s weathered face creased in a knowing smile. “Ye mean, is he wed? Nay me lady. Still a bachelor, though I’m sure there are plenty of Highland lasses with their caps set for him. Rich, powerful, and easy on the eyes, from what I’ve heard tell.”
Isolde felt heat flood her cheeks again. “I was merely wondering about the size of his party, Malcolm. Fer hospitality purposes.”
“Of course, me lady.” The old steward’s eyes twinkled with mischief.
He continued on his way, leaving Isolde alone with her racing thoughts.
Ciaran MacCraith. Unwed.
And currently standing in her family’s courtyard. Every bit like a Celtic legend.
She had to get closer. Had to see him properly, hear his voice, understand what it was about him that had affected her so strongly. Moving with the stealth, Isolde slipped down the corridor toward the great hall.
The ancient castle offered numerous alcoves and hiding places, and Isolde knew them all. She positioned herself behind a massive stone pillar that afforded an excellent view of the hall’s entrance just as the great doors opened.
Her father emerged first—Laird Alistair MacAlpin in his finest plaid, his silver-streaked beard freshly trimmed and his ceremonial dirk gleaming at his side. Behind him came their guests, and Isolde’s eyes widened as Ciaran MacCraith entered her family’s hall.
“Welcome tae Castle MacAlpin,” her father was saying, his voice carrying the formal courtesy due to an important guest. “Ye honor our house with yer presence, Laird MacCraith.”
“The honor is mine, Laird MacAlpin.” Ciaran’s voice was deep and rich, with just a hint of Highland burr that made something warm unfurl in Isolde’s chest. This close, Isolde could see his face was all clean lines and sharp angles, saved from severity by a mouth that looked like if it smiled, ice would melt.
“I thank ye fer receiving me on such short notice.”
“Think naething of it.” Her father gestured toward the hearth where chairs had been arranged. “Please, sit. We’ll share a drink and ye can tell me what brings ye tae our lands.”
As the men settled themselves, servants appeared with wine and ale. Isolde pressed closer to her pillar, straining to hear every word. This was better than any entertainment—watching this magnificent stranger in her own home, learning the cadence of his speech and the way he gestured when making a point.
“I’ll speak plainly,” Ciaran was saying, accepting a goblet of wine. “There have been raids along our eastern borders. Cattle stolen, cottages burned, people killed. The attackers arenae local—they’re too well-organized, too well-armed.”
Isolde’s father leaned forward, his expression growing serious. “Ye think they’re from beyond the Highlands?”
“I dae. Lowlanders, perhaps, or even English. Someone with resources and a grudge against Highland clans in general.” Ciaran took a sip of wine, and Isolde found herself watching the movement of his throat with fascination. “Me scouts have tracked them moving west, toward yer borders. I came tae warn ye, and tae suggest we coordinate our defenses.”
“Wise thinking.” Alistair stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Though I confess meself surprised that the powerful Laird MacCraith would come tae me with such concerns. Yer clan has more resources than most and is known to be self-sufficient.”
There was something in her father’s tone—not quite suspicion, but certainly curiosity about this unexpected alliance. Isolde held her breath, waiting for Ciaran’s response.
“These arenae ordinary times, Laird MacAlpin. The old ways of each clan standing alone arenae enough anymore. If we’re to protect our people and our way of life, we need to work together.” Ciaran’s voice carried conviction that made Isolde’s pulse quicken. Here was a man who cared deeply about his responsibilities, who put duty before pride.
“Besides,” he continued with a slight smile that made Isolde’s knees feel weak, “I’ve ken much about MacAlpin hospitality and the beauty of yer lands. I thought it time I visited again.”
Her father’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Flattery willnae change the fact that MacCraith has never needed MacAlpin before. What makes ye think we need each other now?” He took a measured sip of his wine. “Fergive me bluntness, but I prefer tae ken where I stand.”
“I respect that,” Ciaran replied carefully, his own goblet untouched. “Perhaps we should discuss the specifics of what I’ve observed along the borders.”
Alistair’s grunt was noncommittal, his weathered face revealing nothing of his thoughts. “Aye. Let’s hear these specifics.”
As the two lairds continued to speak, Isolde found herself studying every detail of the man who had so thoroughly captured her attention. The way his eyes crinkled slightly when he smiled. The elegant length of his fingers around the goblet. The way he listened with complete focus when her father spoke, as if every word mattered.
Then reality crashed back over her. She was hiding behind a pillar like a child, spying on her father’s guest. If he saw her, what would he think of her? A desperate laird’s daughter? Or one without a chance of finding a husband so she was drooling over him?
“I should return to me own lands before dark,” Ciaran was saying. “But I thank ye fer yer time and yer counsel.”
“The thanks are mine. Ye’ve given me much tae think about.” Her father walked with his guest toward the door.
They were leaving. Panic fluttered in Isolde’s chest as she realized she might never get another chance to see him again… who knew for how long? Without thinking, she slipped from her hiding place and hurried toward the corridor that led to the upper balcony overlooking the courtyard. If she was quick, she might catch another glimpse of him as he departed.
She reached the balcony just as the men emerged into the courtyard below. From that vantage point, she could see everything—the way Ciaran moved with that same fluid grace, the respectful attention of his men, the obvious care with which he treated his horse as a stable boy brought it forward.
“Safe travels, Laird MacCraith,” her father bid his guest goodbye. “May yer journey home be swift and peaceful.”
“Me thanks, Laird MacAlpin. Until we meet again.”
Until we meet again.
The words echoed in Isolde’s mind as she watched the MacCraith party ride through the gates and disappear down the road toward the eastern mountains. Would they meet again? And if they did, would she be able to string two coherent words together, or would she continue to lurk in shadows like some besotted fool?
She sank to the floor on the balcony and remained there long after the riders had vanished from sight, replaying every moment of the encounter in her mind.
Was it possible he could look at her with those intense eyes one day? Would she ever see him again?
Everything about him seemed designed to drive her to distraction.
Isolde made her way toward the family quarters. She pushed open the door to find all four of her sisters exactly where she’d expected them.
Rhona, wild-haired and bright-eyed, was perched on the window seat cleaning her falconry gloves. Lorna sat at the writing desk, sketching something in her ever-present notebook. Isla was sprawled across one of the beds, tossing an apple in the air and catching it with theatrical flair. And Aileen, the youngest at fourteen, was curled in a chair with a book of poetry.
“Isolde!” Isla called without looking away from her apple. “Where have ye been? Ye missed all the excitement—we had visitors!”
“MacCraith riders,” Rhona added, looking up from her gloves. “Very impressive. I saw them from the falconry tower.”
“Did ye see their leader?” Lorna asked, her artist’s eye bright with interest. “Quite possibly the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“Beautiful is the right word,” Aileen agreed dreamily. “Like something out of a story.”
Isolde stood in the doorway, staring at her sisters with something approaching hysteria. They had all seen him. They had all noticed what she had noticed. And here she’d thought her reaction was somehow unique, some special madness that had overtaken her alone.
“Isolde?” Rhona’s voice carried concern. “Are ye alright? Ye look a bit… strange.”
Isolde walked into the room like a sleepwalker, closing the door behind her. Her sisters watched with growing curiosity as she moved to the nearest chair and threw herself down upon it with dramatic abandon, one arm flung across her eyes.
“I think,” she announced to the ceiling, “I’ve just fallen in love with a god.”
The room erupted in shrieks of delight and demands for details. But Isolde simply lay there, red curls spilling across her shoulders, and tried to process what had just happened to her orderly, predictable world.
Ciaran MacCraith. Just the thought of that name alone was enough to make her pulse race.
She had to see him again.
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…
“I christen thee Iain Lachlan MacCraith,” the priest intoned, his voice echoing through the packed chapel. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
Lady Isolde MacCraith stood holding her three-month-old son in MacCraith castle’s chapel. Little Iain’s christening dress, passed down through generations of MacCraiths, pooled in delicate folds of ivory silk as Father McKenzie lifted the sleeping babe from his mother’s arms.
The Holy water barely touched the baby’s forehead before he let out an indignant wail that had the entire congregation chuckling. From the front pew, five-year-old Alistair tugged on his father’s ceremonial plaid.
“Da, why is Iain crying? Did the priest hurt him?”
Ciaran lifted his son onto his hip, the boy’s fiery hair—so like his mother’s—catching the colored light. “Nay, lad. He’s just telling everyone he’s here and he’s a MacCraith.”
“Like me?”
“Aye, just like ye. But yer braither will answer tae the MacAlpin name, while ye answer MacCraith.”
Alistair looked up at his father, confusion written all across his brows. Ciaran smiled down at his first son. With time, understanding would come.
Behind them, the chapel buzzed with quiet conversation in both Gaelic and English as clan members from across the Highlands witnessed the christening. Isolde caught sight of familiar faces she hadn’t seen in months—MacLeods, Campbells, MacDonalds, even some Frasers from the far north. All there to honor the MacCraith heir and celebrate the harvest festival that would follow.
Then her eyes found her sisters.
Lorna stood with ink-stained fingers clasped behind her back. At twenty-three, she’d become known throughout the region for her detailed illuminated manuscripts and family portraits, her work sought after by several neighboring lairds who’d heard of the MacAlpin daughter’s artistic skill. She wore a gown of deep forest green, the same practical style she’d always favored for her work.
“I want tae capture his likeness,” Lorna said softly, studying baby Iain’s sleeping face. “Just like this, in the christening dress. Perhaps a small portrait fer the family Bible.”
“Ye’ll have tae catch him still first,” Isolde laughed. “He’s already showing signs of the MacAlpin stubbornness.”
Twenty-two-year-old Isla snorted from behind them. “Or laird MacCraith’s strong will. Wait until he starts walking.” The lass had grown into a formidable healer, her knowledge of herbs and healing sought after throughout the Highlands.
She still wore her auburn hair in a practical braid, and her capable hands bore the signs of someone who worked with mortar and pestle daily. “I brought something fer him,” she whispered, holding a small sachet. “Lavender and chamomile. For peaceful sleep.”
“You’re an angel,” Aileen murmured.
“Hardly.” Isla’s grin was pure mischief. “Ask the MacPherson lad who tried to court me last month. I may have mentioned exactly which plants could make a man very uncomfortable if improperly prepared.”
Aileen, now twenty-one and radiant in her engagement, slipped her arm through her sister’s free one. “Some things never change,” she said fondly. “Though I notice ye didnae actually poison him.”
“Only because Colin Campbell threatened tae dose me with me own medicine if I scared off any more suitors.” Isla’s expression softened as she looked at Aileen. “He’s good fer ye, that Campbell heir.”
Aileen’s cheeks pinked prettily. “He makes me laugh. And he listens when I talk about clan negotiations instead of glazing over like most men dae.”
The christening ceremony concluded, and the crowd began filing out toward the great hall where tables groaned under the weight of the harvest feast. Isolde found herself swept along in a tide of congratulations and good wishes, her sisters forming a protective circle around her and the baby.
The great hall had been transformed. Autumn garlands of rowan berries, heather, and golden wheat hung from the rafters, while the massive hearth crackled with a fire that would burn until dawn. Long tables stretched the length of the hall, laden with roasted meats, fresh fish, bannocks still warm from the ovens, and wheels of cheese aged in the castle’s cellars.
But it was the people that took Isolde’s breath away.
MacCraith and MacAlpin colors mingled freely at every table. Children who’d been born since the alliance between the clans played together, their laughter ringing through the hall as they chased each other between the tables. Young men and women from both clans sat together, deep in animated conversation about everything from cattle breeding to the latest ballads from traveling bards.
“Look at them,” Ciaran murmured in her ear as he appeared beside her, Alistair still perched on his hip. “Five years ago, could ye have imagined this?”
Isolde shook her head, unable to speak past the tightness in her throat. At the high table, her father sat in the place of honor beside Ciaran’s chair, looking healthier and happier than she’d seen him in years. Laird Alistair MacAlpin had flourished in his role as elder statesman and grandfather, his counsel sought by clan leaders throughout the region.
“Grandda!” Alistair squirmed until Ciaran set him down, then raced toward the high table where Alistair the elder waited with open arms.
“There’s me lad! Come tell yer grandda what ye’ve learned this week.”
The boy launched into an enthusiastic account of his sword lessons with his father, complete with dramatic gestures that had the nearby adults hiding smiles behind their cups of ale.
“He’s going tae be a handful,” Tavish observed, settling beside Ciaran with his own cup.
“He inherited it,” Ciaran replied. “His maither once climbed the castle walls just tae prove she could.”
“When did I—” Isolde began, then caught the gleam in her husband’s eye. “You’re making that up.”
“Am I?” He leaned down to whisper against her ear, “Though if ye’d like tae try it now, I’d be happy tae catch ye if ye fall.”
The hall erupted in cheers as the musicians struck up a lively reel. Couples immediately took to the cleared space in the center of the hall, their feet moving in the intricate steps passed down through generations. Isolde watched, swaying slightly with baby Iaian, as young people from a dozen different clans danced together, their plaids and clan colors creating a kaleidoscope.
“Dance with me, wife.” Ciaran’s voice was soft, but his eyes held the same intensity they’d carried six years before, when he’d first asked her to dance at Castle Murray.
“I can’t. The baby—”
“I’ll take him.” Aileen appeared at her elbow, arms already extended. “Go.”
Isolde hesitated only a moment before placing Iain in her sister’s capable arms. Ciaran led her onto the floor just as the musicians began a slower, more romantic tune—one that allowed for conversation between the intricate steps.
“Dae ye remember,” he said as they moved through the familiar patterns, “the first time we danced?”
“Ye mean when ye told me I watched ye too often?” Isolde’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “And called me a pretty liar?”
“Ye were watching me. And ye were lying.” His hand tightened on her waist, drawing her closer.”
Around them, other couples swayed to the music. Isolde caught glimpses of familiar faces—Rhona dancing with her husband, their movements perfectly synchronized after three years of marriage; Lorna laughing as a young MacPherson lad attempted to teach her a complicated step; even Isla had been coaxed onto the floor by one of Ciaran’s cousins, though she looked ready to bolt at any moment.
But it was the sight of two young people at the edge of the dancing that made Isolde’s heart squeeze with recognition. A girl of perhaps sixteen, wearing MacLeod colors, stood half-hidden behind one of the hall’s massive pillars, her eyes fixed on a young man across the room. The lad—barely eighteen and wearing the green and blue of Clan Campbell—kept glancing in her direction when he thought no one was looking.
“Look,” Isolde murmured, nodding toward the young couple.
Ciaran followed her gaze and chuckled. “Young love. Think we should introduce them?”
“And ruin the romance of stolen glances and secret smiles? Never.” Isolde’s voice grew soft with memory. “Some things are perfect just as they are.”
The music swelled, and Ciaran spun her gracefully before drawing her back into his arms. “Like this?”
“Like this,” she agreed, looking around at the hall filled with family, friends, and allies. At children playing games their parents had played generations before. At old men sharing stories over cups of whisky and young women planning marriages that would strengthen bonds between clans.
This was what they’d fought for. Not just survival, but this—joy, prosperity, hope for the future.
As the song ended, Ciaran kept his arms around her for a moment longer than necessary. “I love ye, Isolde MacCraith.”
“And I love ye.” She reached up to touch his face, marveling at how familiar and precious it had become. “All of this, we built this together.”
“We did.” He kissed her softly, ignoring the good-natured cheers from their audience. “And we’re not finished yet.”
Later, as the celebration continued into the night, Isolde found herself on the castle’s battlements, baby Iain sleeping peacefully in her arms. The sounds of music and laughter drifted up from below, mixing with the distant lowing of cattle and the whisper of wind through the heather.
Ciaran joined her, Alistair drowsing against his shoulder.
“Tired, lad?” Isolde asked softly.
“Mm.” Their son’s eyes fluttered open briefly. “Can we dae this again tomorrow?”
“Every day,” Ciaran promised. “Fer as long as ye want.”
Isolde leaned against her husband’s side, watching the lights twinkle in the windows of the village below. Somewhere out there, in cottages and castles across the Highlands, families were gathering, children were learning the old songs, and young people were falling in love.
The future stretched before them, bright with possibility.
“What are ye thinking about?” Ciaran asked.
“Everything,” she said simply. “All of it. How far we’ve come.”
“And where we’re going…”
She smiled, holding their sleeping son closer. “Wherever that is, we’ll go taegether.”
The wind carried the sound of distant pipes playing an ancient tune—one of celebration, of home, of love that endured through all seasons.
And in the warm circle of her family’s arms, Lady Isolde MacCraith knew that some stories truly did have perfect endings.
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 1
Castle MacAlpin, 1659
“Faither, may I be excused?” Isolde set down her spoon. “I fear I’m nae feeling quite meself tonight.”
Isolde glanced at her sisters seated across the long oak table. A moment before, the dining hall echoed with the scrape of spoons against bowls. Now Isolde caught her sister’s eye and tilted her head slightly toward the door. Rhona nodded, understanding immediately.
Laird Alistair MacAlpin looked up from his simple meal, concern etching his weathered face. “Aye, lass. Get some rest.”
The few servants that remained at MacAlpin Castle cleared dishes in silence, their footsteps echoing in the half-empty hall. As she slipped out of her chair, a wave of sadness to flood through Isolde. She remembered when those tables had groaned with food and the hall had bustled with clansmen.
How quickly fortunes could change in the Highlands—one poor harvest, one failed alliance, one enemy too many. Their once-proud clan now clung to their lands by mere threads of ancient loyalty, their wealth as scattered as the autumn leaves. What her father wouldn’t trade for just one strong son to inherit rather than five daughters, no matter how clever they might be. “I shall look after her,” Rhona announced, already rising. “She was complaining of a headache earlier.”
Isolde’s other sister Aileen, the youngest at sixteen, fidgeted in her seat. “May I also—”
“Go on then,” their father waved a hand, “all of ye. These old bones need peace and quiet.”
The three sisters hurried from the hall, maintaining decorum until they rounded the corner. Then they broke into a run, skirts gathered in their hands, stifling giggles as they raced up the winding staircase to the east tower.
“Quickly!” Isolde burst through the chamber door. Her mother’s midnight blue velvet with the silver thread gown was already laid across her bed.
Rhona locked the door behind them. “Ye’re mad, ye ken that? Completely daft tae dae this.”
“Stop scolding like some old woman and help me,” Isolde was already tugging at her dinner dress. “I cannae miss this chance tae see him.”
Aileen bounced on her toes while helping her sister with the undershirt. “What if Da discovers ye’re gone?”
“He willnae if ye two dinnae mess this up. And make sure Lorna and Isla are sworn to silence.” Isolde stepped into the blue gown, its style a decade old but the fabric still rich and lustrous. “Rhona, the laces!”
Rhona pulled the dress tight, snatching Isolde’s waist. “Ye’ve been obsessed with Laird MacCraith since ye first laid eyes on him, when he visited Da.”
“Wouldnae ye be?” Isolde’s cheeks flushed. “The way he carries himself, he’s like a warrior king from the old stories.”
“He’s older than ye,” Aileen whispered, eyes wide.
“And they say his clan’s council would never let him marry outside powerful alliances,” Rhona added.
“I’m nae proposing marriage,” Isolde snapped. Her face softened at her sister’s hurt expression, and she squeezed her arm affectionately. “I just want tae see him again. Tae be in the same room, even if just once more.”
Rhona worked on Isolde’s hair with precision, twisting the dark ginger locks into an elegant arrangement. “A laird’s unwed daughter, unescorted, at another laird’s masquerade… ye’ll be ruined if recognized.”
Isolde raised one finger, then reached for a silver mask inlaid with tiny sapphires—another relic from their mother’s chest. “Nay one will ken me with this.”
She fastened it and turned to look at her reflection. The mask transformed her, lending mystery to her blue eyes and high cheekbones.
“Oh my. Ye look like royalty,” Aileen breathed.
“Is the secret passage still clear?” Isolde gathered a dark cloak.
“Aye,” Rhona nodded. “I checked yesterday. The old hunting path beyond is overgrown but passable.”
Isolde embraced her sisters fiercely. “If anyone asks—”
“Ye’re ill with a fever and sleeping,” Rhona finished. “We ken.”
“I’ll be back before dawn,” Isolde promised, slipping a small dagger into her boot.
Aileen pressed something into her hand. She looked down and saw it was a small silver charm. “Fer luck. ‘Twas Maither’s.”
Isolde’s throat tightened. She kissed her youngest sister. “I’ll be careful, mo chridhe.”
Rhona opened the window to the narrow ledge beyond. “If ye’re caught by our clan enemies on the road—”
“I’ll gut them meself,” Isolde grinned fiercely, but when she saw her sisters’ worried expressions, she added, “I promise tae be careful and come home soon.”
Not wasting another second, she slipped through the window and disappeared into the shadows, her heart pounding with the thrill of forbidden adventure and the thought of seeing Laird Ciaran MacCraith.
***
Castle Murray, The Masquerade Ball
The moment Isolde entered the crowded room, her eyes were drawn to him as if by magic. Her breath caught in her throat.
Laird Ciaran MacCraith. The mere sight of him sent a rush of heat through her body, settling low in her belly.
Sweet heavens, even from across the room his presence steals my breath.
Isolde pressed herself into the shadows, her back against a stone column, her heart hammering against her ribs like a war drum.
Torches blazed from every wall, bathing the great hall in golden light. Music swirled around masked dancers who spun like autumn leaves in a whirlwind, but Isolde didn’t notice. Her eyes were fixed on him.
Laird Ciaran MacCraith stood head and shoulders above most of the men in the room. His dark hair was pulled back from a face half-covered by a black mask. He moved with the confidence of a man who commanded respect without asking.
A circle of admirers surrounded him—daughters from clans powerful enough for their ambitious lairds to hover like hawks, their eyes gleaming with the hope their daughter would be the one to capture the dashing Ciaran McCraith’s attention.
Isolde’s fingers tightened on her goblet, taken from a passing servant’s tray as her attention remained fixed on Laird Ciaran. Two years. Two long years since that day he’d arrived at their castle.
She’d been on the gallery above the great hall when he strode in with his men, his deep voice washing over her like the finest Highland whisky—rough with the brogue of his people yet smooth with the refinement of a learned man. She’d pressed herself behind a pillar, stretching her neck to observe him as he awaited her father.
What would ye think if ye kent I’ve been dreaming of ye fer two long years?
And tonight, attending this masquerade, would add to her collection of secret memories. To drink him in with her eyes, to hear his laugh echo across the chamber would be enough.
Knowing the impossibility of their clans’ alliance, she sought no introduction, expected no acknowledgment. She’d remain a shadow at the edge of his world, content merely to exist in the same space, to breathe the same air, if only for those stolen hours.
She watched him lead a blonde woman to the dance floor. His movements were fluid, controlled. Even in dance, he moved like a warrior.
Just one glimpse of ye was all I wanted.
For over an hour, Isolde watched hawk-eyed from the shadows. She studied his hands as they clasped those of noblewomen, imagining how they might feel against her own skin—rough from the dueling, yet gentle in their guidance across the dance floor.
When he laughed at something a lass said, Isolde’s eyes traced the strong column of his throat to the slight dimple that appeared on his left cheek.
She sipped sweet wine, letting it linger on her tongue, wondering if his kiss would be as intoxicating.
When his path brought him near where she stood, she pressed deeper into the shadows, turning away but watching him through lowered lashes. Her breath caught as he passed close enough that she could detect a whiff of leather and his cologne.
The evening wore on. Candles burned lower in their sconces. The musicians played faster, more passionate reels that sent couples spinning in dizzying circles. Isolde watched, imagining Ciaran McCraith’s arm around her waist, guiding her through those same steps, his breath warm against her hair.
Dinnae be a fool, Isolde. Men like him dinnae notice women from fallen clans. Ye’ve had enough daydreaming.
The midnight bell would soon toll, and she would have to return before dawn exposed her deception. She set down her goblet, preparing to leave.
That was when the music changed.
A slow, haunting melody rose from the musicians’ corner. Dancers separated, seeking new partners. In that moment of shifting alliances, Laird Ciaran MacCraith turned.
Across the crowded hall, through the sea of masks and finery, his gaze locked directly with hers.
Isolde froze. The room stilled around them, the music fading to a distant hum until the only thing she could hear was her own thundering heart. She should look away—flee—but she was trapped in the intensity of his stare.
And then—
Is he walking toward me?
Yes. Yes, he was.
Laird Ciaran MacCraith was moving toward her, cutting through the crowd with purpose, his eyes never leaving hers.
Panic surged through Isolde’s veins. She wasn’t prepared for this—not for him to notice her, certainly not for him to approach.
Run. I must run.
She turned sharply, skirts swirling around her ankles, but her foot caught on the edge of a tapestry. The world tilted. She threw out her hands as she stumbled forward—
Strong hands captured her waist, steadying her with impossible gentleness despite their firm grip. Heat blazed through the fabric of her gown where his fingers pressed. The scent of leather and rare Florentine ambergris enveloped her, dizzyingly close.
Isolde’s body arched backward into the curve of his hold, her spine making a perfect bow. She lifted her gaze and was immediately sucked into eyes so dark, they seemed to drink the torchlight around them rather than reflect it—eyes that studied her face with surprising intensity.
“Careful, lass,” he murmured, his voice lower and smoother than in her memories. It wrapped around her like velvet. “These floors have been kent to claim even the most delicate of dancers.”
His face hovered mere inches from hers. She could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight shadow of evening stubble beneath his mask, the way his lips curved—not quite a smile but just as ruthless in its charm.
Heat crept up her neck. This close, she could feel the power in his frame, the controlled strength as he effortlessly held her suspended between falling and standing.
“I—I wasnae… I didnae—” Words stumbled over her tongue, her usually quick wit deserting her entirely.
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes, the gesture so quick she might have imagined it, yet it left her lips tingling for his touch.
“Dance with me.” Not a question. He expected Isolde to obey without protest.
Her fingers flexed against his forearms, not certain when she’d placed her hands there. She should retreat, make her excuses—
“Unless ye fear being seen with me?” he challenged, something flashing in his eyes. “Perhaps ye prefer tae remain in the shadows, watching rather than experiencing?”
Pride surged through her confusion. She straightened her spine, chin lifting. “I fear naething, me laird.” She infused her voice with all the noble bearing her father had instilled in her. “Certainly nae a dance.”
His smile, a true smile that transformed his severe features, nearly buckled her knees. His eyes crinkled at the edges, revealing a warmth she hadn’t expected from a man rumored to be tough, strong.
Isolde felt like the sun had just broke through the night, unexpected, and all the more stunning for its rarity.
He took her gloved hand in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a caress that seemed to scorch through the fabric.
“Then prove it to me,” he said, leading her toward the center of the hall, where the musicians had begun a new melody. “Let us see if ye can keep pace with more than just yer sharp tongue.”
The musicians struck up a new melody as he led her to the center of the hall. Other dancers parted, their eyes following them with curious glances. Lasses who’d spent the evening seeking the laird’s favor now watched with silent dismay as he guided a mysterious masked woman across the floor, having ignored several eligible daughters, each of which had hoped to have the next dance.
“Strange,” His hand settled at the small of her back. Isolde felt it like a flame burning through her gown, “I cannae recall seeing ye at any gathering before tonight. I’m certain I would remember.”
She arched an eyebrow beneath her mask. “The whispers say ye have enough women in yer company. How dae ye keep a tally of them all?”
God, why did I just say that?
His laugh was low and rich, sending a shiver down her spine as he guided her through the first turn. “It’s easy with the captivating ones.” His fingers tightened slightly at her waist, drawing her closer than the dance required. “Especially when they cannae seem tae take their eyes off me.”
The music quickened, and so did Isolde’s heart as he spun her outward, only to pull her back against his chest with controlled strength. He continued speaking without giving her enough time to answer.
“Ye’ve been watching me all evening, lass.” His voice dropped lower still. “From behind yer pillar. Did ye think I wouldnae notice?”
Isolde’s breath caught. “I-I wasnae… I wasnae watching ye,” she managed, the slight tremor in her voice betraying her.
One corner of his mouth hitched higher. “Ye lie very prettily.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering there with unmistakable intent. “Such bonnie lips shouldnae be wasted on falsehoods when they could be put tae far more… pleasurable uses.” He pulled her closer, his meaning impossible to misinterpret as his own lips hovered mere inches from hers.
Heat flared in Isolde’s cheeks. She pulled back sharply, missing a step in the dance. Her pulse quickened with indignation at his boldness. No man had ever dared speak to her so brazenly before
“Ye dare tae presume…” she started, her voice trembling slightly.
“I presume naething, lass,” he countered, his brogue deepening. “I merely observe what’s before me.”
“I am a lady, Laird MacCraith, nae one of your tavern wenches tae be toyed with.” Her chin lifted, eyes flashing fire behind her mask. “I thought ye were a man of honor, nae one who would speak tae a woman of noble birth as if she were… were…”
“Fascinating?” he offered, seemingly more intrigued than chastened by her outburst.
“Indecent,” she finished, stepping away from him as the dance came to an end. The other dancers were already pairing off for the next set, but Isolde had endured enough. Her heart couldn’t bear another moment pressed against him, desire warring with dignity.
“Ye think me a conquest then?” she challenged, backing away.
The MacAlpin name might have lost its wealth and its standing, but she would not let it lose its honor. Even as her traitorous body yearned for his touch, her father’s daughter would not be made sport of by a man who could take whatever—and whomever—he wanted. “I think ye a mystery I intend tae solve,” he replied, his eyes never leaving hers. “Ken, lass, this isnae finished between us.”
She dropped into a curtsy, deliberately formal and cold. “Good evening, m’laird. Thank ye fer the dance.”
Without waiting for his response, she turned and moved swiftly through the crowd, ignoring his call of “Wait!” that followed her.
Her cheeks burned with equal parts anger and embarrassment. She had fantasized about this moment for two years, and now that insufferable man had spoiled it entirely with his arrogance.
The great Laird MacCraith—so proud and presumptuous, treating her as though she were merely another conquest to be claimed like land in battle. For all his fine reputation, he was no better than the rest of them—those Highland lairds who believed their power gave them right to whatever they desired.
Mother would have called him ‘a wolf in fine wool,’ and now Isolde could see why. Yet, even as disappointment burned in her breast, something else smoldered alongside it—something dangerous that sought expression.
The cool night air hit her face as she pushed through a side door into a small courtyard. Stars dotted the black sky above. She gulped down breaths, willing her racing heart to calm.
She heard the door behind her open, and pressed herself into the shadows of a stone archway, holding her breath. Ciaran’s tall figure appeared, his silhouette unmistakable as he looked left and right across the courtyard.
“Me laird!” A voice called from inside. “The lairds are gathering in the library to discuss the alliance.”
Ciaran hesitated, looking once more into the darkness before turning back. “Aye, I’m coming.”
When the door closed behind him, Isolde sagged against the cold stone. What a fool she’d been. This entire adventure had been madness from the start. She pushed away from the wall, gathering her cloak tighter around her shoulders.
It was time to go home. She’d had her glimpse of Laird Ciaran MacCraith—far more than a glimpse. Perhaps it was for the best he’d revealed his true nature. Now she could finally purge him from her thoughts, her dreams, her very being. The man she’d built in her imagination had crumbled to dust, replaced by this arrogant beast with hungry eyes. Perhaps it was the cure she’d needed all along.
A few minutes later, Isolde was urging her horse faster along the narrow path. The forest was thick there, branches reaching like spectral fingers across the trail. She’d tarried too long at Castle Murray—dawn would break in mere hours, and she had to be back in her bed before the household stirred.
“Come on, Brígh,” she whispered to her mare, leaning forward in the saddle. The path dipped sharply, forcing her to slow as they descended toward the valley that would lead her to the MacAlpin lands.
The snap of a branch froze her blood.
Isolde pulled Brígh to a halt, listening. The night was too quiet—no owls, no rustling creatures. She reached slowly for the dagger in her boot, fingers just brushing the hilt when thundering hoofbeats erupted behind her.
“Yah!” She dug her heels into Brígh’s sides. The mare surged forward, but the path was too narrow for speed. Three riders crashed through the underbrush, cutting across the forest to intercept her.
The first rider appeared ahead, blocking the path. Isolde yanked the reins, veering Brígh sharply left into the trees. Branches clawed at her face and gown as they plunged through the darkness.
“There she goes!” a gruff voice shouted. “Dinnae let her reach MacAlpin land!”
They ken who I am.
Panic surged through her veins. Brígh stumbled on the uneven ground, nearly sending Isolde flying. Before she could regain control, a rope whistled through the air, catching her around the waist and yanking her from the saddle.
She hit the ground hard, air rushing from her lungs. Still, she scrambled to her feet, dagger now in hand as three men dismounted and advanced.
“Well, well,” the largest one chuckled, his face scarred and brutal in the moonlight. “Lady Isolde MacAlpin, out fer a midnight ride. Laird Wallace will be pleased.”
Wallace! I should have kenned!
“Tell yer master I’m nae interested in his attentions,” Isolde spat, circling slowly, dagger gleaming. “I’d sooner wed a toad.”
The men laughed, spreading out to surround her. “It’s nae a proposal we’re bringing ye, m’lady,” the scarred one said. “It’s an order. Ye’ll make a dutiful bride at our laird’s side, whether ye wish it or nae. The MacAlpin lands will be his one way or another.”
“I’ll die first,” Isolde hissed, lunging suddenly at the nearest man.
Her dagger slashed across his arm, drawing a howl of pain. She spun, kicking hard at the second man’s knee, feeling it buckle beneath her boot. But the scarred leader caught her from behind, massive arms wrapping around her.
Isolde drove her head backward, feeling the satisfying crunch as her skull connected with his nose. His grip loosened enough for her to twist, bringing her knee up sharply between his legs.
“Ye witch!” he gasped, doubling over.
She clawed at his face, nails raking bloody furrows down his cheek before the other men recovered. One grabbed her hair, yanking her head back while the other twisted the dagger from her grip.
“Naething was said about bringing ye unharmed,” the scarred leader growled, blood streaming from his nose into his beard as he straightened. “Just alive.”
“Ye can tell yer—” Isolde’s defiant words cut off as he backhanded her across the face, splitting her lip. She tasted blood but refused to cry out.
“Enough talk,” he snarled, grabbing her chin. “Bind her hands. We ride fer—”
The snap of a twig and the soft thud of boots hitting earth silenced him. It was their only warning before a shadow detached itself from the darkness behind them.
Chapter 2
TThe thud of steel met flesh before the men could turn. The scarred man howled in pain as a blade sliced across his back. He stumbled forward, releasing Isolde as he turned to face this new threat.
Isolde fell back, eyes widening as she recognized her rescuer. Laird Ciaran MacCraith, his face fierce in the moonlight, was a far cry from the charming dancer she had run out on at the ball.
“Kill him!” the scarred leader roared, drawing his own sword. The three men formed a semicircle, stalking toward Ciaran with weapons raised.
The first attacker lunged with a wild swing. Ciaran sidestepped with practiced ease, his blade meeting the man’s with a ringing clash before sliding down to slice across his opponent’s forearm. The man cried out but pressed forward, joined by his companions in a coordinated attack.
Ciaran moved like water between them, his footwork precise where theirs was clumsy. His sword became an extension of his arm, parrying, striking, drawing blood with each calculated movement. Where they hacked and slashed, he executed controlled strikes that spoke of years of disciplined training.
One man fell to his knees, clutching a deep gash in his thigh. Another stumbled back, blood pouring from a cut above his eye. The scarred leader, seeing his advantage disappear, glanced between his injured companions and the barely winded laird.
“Run!” he finally shouted, scrambling backward toward his horse. The others followed, cursing as they fled.
The attackers crashed through the forest, disappearing into the darkness with Ciaran’s curses following them into the night. Only when their hoofbeats faded did he turn back to Isolde, sheathing his blade.
***
“Are ye hurt, lass?” Ciaran asked. Blood pounded in his ears, the battle rage still coursing through his veins.
Something about her had drawn him away from duty—perhaps the way she’d stood her ground against his teasing, or how she’d matched him word for word without cowering as most lasses did. She was fire where others were merely smoke, and he’d been unable to resist the pull of her flame.
His impulsive decision to follow her had saved her life, though he’d had no choice in letting the bastards who attacked her go. Making sure she was alright was more important, and if she told him who they were, getting them would prove easy enough.
Now, watching her in the moonlight, he wondered what other surprises this mysterious woman might hold.
She touched her lip where blood had already begun to dry. “Nothing lasting,” she said, pride evident in her voice though it caught on the words.
For all her brave front, Ciaran could see the way her shoulders shook, how she clutched at the torn fabric of her gown as though it might shield her from memories still fresh and raw. Ciaran studied her in the dappled moonlight. Her mask remained firmly in place, but he could see now how the fear she fought to hide mixed with her fierce spirit burned behind those blue eyes.
Though she stood tall despite her torn gown, when she took a step forward, her knees nearly buckled beneath her.
Ciaran reached out and steadied her, his large hand gentle against her elbow. “Here now,” he murmured, guiding her to sit on a nearby fallen log. “Take a moment, lass.”
She sank down, her legs finally betraying the strength she’d fought to maintain. In the silvered light, he could see the pallor beneath her flushed cheeks, the way she held herself as though one wrong move might shatter her composure.
“Are ye truly alright?” he asked, crouching before her, his voice softer than he’d intended. This close, he could see the fine tremors running through her, smell the sweet heather scent of her hair beneath the fear and exertion.
“Aye. I’m fine,” she answered, lifting her chin. “Thank ye fer yer… intervention.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the forest quiet save for the distant hoot of an owl and the drumming of his own heart. The moonlight caught in her hair, turning the loose strands to liquid silver. Despite her torn gown and the smudge of dirt on her cheek, she carried herself with the bearing of nobility.
The memory of her fighting—kicking, clawing, using her small dagger with no practiced skill—flashed through his mind. A small smile turned big until laughter rumbled up from his chest, unexpected and deep.
“Something amuses ye, me laird?” she asked sharply.
His laugh grew louder. “I’ve never seen a lass fight like that,” he managed between breaths. “Three armed men twice yer size, and ye had them howling. I could enlist ye in me ranks tomorrow and make me enemies tremble.”
For a moment she stared at him, then her own laughter joined his, a musical sound that lightened the forest darkness. “I wasnae sure me knee found its mark on that big one,” she admitted, “but his face told me otherwise.”
The shared laughter cleared the battle haze from Ciaran’s mind. This woman was no ordinary noble daughter, taught only to embroider and please a future husband. There was steel beneath her fine gown.
“Ye have a name, lass?” he asked when their laughter subsided. “Or should I simply call ye ‘the warrior in silk’?”
She turned away, searching the forest floor. “Me horse,” she said, ignoring his question.
Ciaran spotted it among the trees and walked over to it, taking its reins. “Allow me tae escort ye home. After what just happened, it would be madness tae let yer travel alone.”
“I thank ye fer yer help, Laird MacCraith, but I can manage from here.” She moved to step past him.
Ciaran stepped smoothly into her path, his mouth curving into a knowing smile. “Ye called me by name at the ball as well, if I recall. Strange fer a lass who has nay name nor clan.”
His eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he studied her masked face. “Were ye there just fer me then? Seeking out the fearsome Laird MacCraith?”
“Dinnae flatter yerself,” she retorted, though her cheeks flared with color visible even in the dim light. “Everyone kens who ye are. ‘Tis hardly a secret when ye command attention wherever ye go.”
Her quick response only deepened his interest. This woman had spirit—first fleeing from him at the ball, now standing defiant despite her ordeal. Whatever game she played, he found himself increasingly unwilling to let her vanish into the night.
Ciaran caught her arm, gentle but firm. “Three men just tried tae carry ye off intae the night, and ye think I’ll let ye wander these woods alone?” He searched her masked face, trying to place her features among the daughters of nearby clans. “Who are ye, and why willnae ye tell me where yer home is?”
She stiffened beneath his touch. “Release me, sir.”
“Nae until I ken ye’re safe.”
“I am safe! I was handling meself fine, just as I was before ye came tae me at the ball,” she retorted, pulling free.
Ciaran raised an eyebrow. “Handling yerself fine? As I recall, ye were almost on the floor before I caught ye. And after that, ye seemed willing enough when me arm was around yer waist.”
Color rose in her cheeks, visible even in the dim light. “That was… I was…”
“Yes?” He couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips.
Her eyes flashed. “Ye’re insufferable.”
“And ye’re injured, lost, and stubborn as a mule.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair, loosened from its tie during the fight. “Look, I dinnae ken who ye are or why ye’re hiding it, but those men will return, likely with more. These woods arenae safe.”
She took a step back. “I ken these paths better than ye think.”
“Aye, and so dae they, it seems.” Ciaran gestured to the forest around them. “They kent exactly where tae wait fer ye.”
Her confidence wavered, eyes darting to the shadows between trees. Ciaran pressed his advantage.
“Me castle is less than an hour’s ride. Ye can rest there, tend that cut properly, and I’ll have me men escort ye home, but only if ye tell me which clan ye belong tae.” When she hesitated, he added softly,
“I cannae—”
“Ye can and ye will,” he said, his voice taking on the tone that silenced arguments in his council chamber. “Fer if ye think I’ll stand here debating while ye bleed on forest leaves, ye’re sorely mistaken.”
Her shoulders squared. “Ye cannae command me, Laird MacCraith. I am nae one of yer clan.”
“Then from which clan are ye?” he challenged.
Silence stretched between them. She glanced toward the path she’d been following, calculating. Ciaran watched her, fascinated by the play of thoughts behind those expressive eyes.
“I willnae tell ye me name or me home,” she finally said. “But neither can I remain in these woods.”
“Then we have only one option.” Ciaran moved toward his horse, which had remained calm throughout the skirmish, trained for battle as it was. “Ye’ll come tae Castle MacCraith.”
“I willnae.”
He turned back to her, amusement fading. “Fight me all ye want, lass, but ye’re coming with me. One way or another.”
Something in his tone must have convinced her of his resolve. She stared at him for a long moment, measuring him as one might an opponent across a battlefield.
“Until dawn,” she conceded finally. “I will stay until dawn, and then I must go.”
Triumph rose in Ciaran’s chest. But it was not enough. “Nay, lass. I’ll nae let ye go until ye tell me yer clan and I can see ye safely tae yer home.”
He approached his horse, a massive black stallion that towered over her slight frame, and tied the mare’s reins to its saddle, so it would follow him. Before she could protest, he placed his hands at her waist and lifted her effortlessly onto his saddle.
The contact sent a jolt through him, like the ones he felt while dancing with her.
Careful, man. Ye ken naething about her.
As he lifted her, the silk ribbon of her mask caught on his sleeve. The delicate covering fell away, revealing her face in the moonlight. Her gasp was immediate, her hand flying up to cover herself, but it was too late.
His breath caught in his throat, heat surging through his veins. The lass was bonnie beyond measure—her high cheekbones flushed with color, those fierce blue eyes that had haunted him now framed by long lashes that swept against her skin. His gaze dropped to her lips, full and slightly parted in surprise, the bottom one bearing the smallest cut from her ordeal.
“So, the mystery lass finally shows her face,” he teased, attempting to make light of the moment.
Ciaran bent down, retrieving the fallen mask from the forest floor, his eyes never leaving her now-exposed features. She leaned slightly forward, causing a cascade of dark ginger hair to tumble over her shoulder, drawing his eye to the gentle curve where it stopped just above the swell of her breast. The thin fabric of her torn gown clung to her body, revealing hints of soft curves he had felt while dancing.
Christ!
The word a prayer and curse combined as desire crashed through him. This was no mere appreciation of beauty—this was hunger, primal and demanding.
There was something vaguely familiar about her face that tugged at his memory, though he couldn’t place it. Instinctively, he slipped the mask into his cloak pocket. “Ye sure we havenae met, lass? Something about ye…”
But she cut him off. “Let’s go. By dawn ye’ll likely forget ye ever saw me.” Now that the mask was off, he could see her expression and she seemed slightly alarmed.
I’ll ken what ye’re hiding before daybreak.
Yet as he swung up behind her, his chest pressed against her back, arms encircling her to take the reins, Ciaran knew he was treading dangerous ground. Something about this woman called to him in a way no other had.
“Hold tight,” he murmured, his breath stirring the fine hairs near her ear. He felt her slight shiver and smiled to himself as they set off through the moonlit forest.
‘The warrior in silk’ sat rigidly at first, trying to maintain distance where none was possible. Gradually, as the horse navigated the uneven terrain, her body yielded to the rhythm of the ride, softening against him. The scent of her hair—sweet roses mingling with night air—filled his senses with every breath.
What in the devil’s name is wrong with ye, man?
Ciaran had had beautiful women from powerful clans across the Highlands presented to him like prized mares at auction. Daughters of lairds and chieftains had smiled and flirted, offering political alliances along with their dowries and bodies, yet none had affected him like this nameless lass.
With each breath, her back pressed against his chest. With each stride of the horse, her hips shifted between his thighs. The heat of her body seeped through the layers of their clothing, igniting something primal within him.
He became acutely aware of every curve where they touched, the delicate line of her neck mere inches from his lips, the way her breath quickened when his arms tightened around her to navigate a steep descent.
When she turned slightly to glance at the passing landscape, the moonlight caught the pulse fluttering at her throat. Ciaran fought the sudden, overwhelming urge to press his mouth to that pulse point, to taste the salt of her skin, to feel her heartbeat quicken against his tongue.
Bloody Hell, man. Compose yerself. Ye’re a laird, nae some young lad with his first woman.
Yet there was something intoxicating about her—thats mysterious, fierce creature who fought like a wildcat and whose body now melted against his own. Perhaps it was the contradiction of her refined speech and savage defense, or the way she’d challenged him when most cowered.
Whatever the cause, the effect was undeniable: blood rushing hot through his veins, his body responding in ways that would soon become impossible to hide if she pressed any closer.
They rode in silence, the forest giving way to rolling moorland. Fingers of mist curled around the horse’s legs as they climbed a gentle rise. Ciaran heard her take in a sharp breath as Castle MacCraith appeared on the horizon, its towers silhouetted against the star-strewn sky.
“Home,” he said simply, unable to keep the pride from his voice.
The castle stood upon a rocky outcrop, ancient stone walls rising from the cliff face as if they’d grown from the very mountain. Torches lined the approach, their flames dancing in the night breeze, guiding them home.
“It’s magnificent,” she whispered, the first words she’d spoken since they’d begun their journey.
As they approached the gatehouse, a guard’s voice called down from the battlements. “Who goes there?”
“Yer laird, ye blind fool,” Ciaran shouted back, amusement coloring his tone. “Open the gates.”
“At once, m’laird!” came the immediate response, followed by shouted orders to raise the portcullis.
The heavy wooden doors swung inward. They rode into the torch-lit courtyard where a stable boy rushed forward to take the reins.
Ciaran dismounted first, then reached up for her. His hands spanned her waist as he lifted her down, allowing her body to slide against his for a moment longer than necessary before setting her on her feet. Her cheeks flushed, visible even in the flickering torchlight.
“Laird MacCraith.” A woman with iron-gray hair and a severe expression hurried across the courtyard. “We werenae expecting ye back taenight.” Her eyes widened at the sight of Isolde, taking in the torn gown and disheveled appearance.
“Elspeth,” Ciaran nodded to his housekeeper. “We have a guest who requires attention. She was attacked on the road.”
“Saints preserve us,” Elspeth muttered, already assessing Isolde’s injuries with a practiced eye. “I’ll prepare a chamber and send fer the healer.”
“Nay need fer the healer,” Ciaran said. “Bring me the herbs and ointments.”
Elspeth’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline, but she knew better than to question her laird. “As ye wish. I’ll ready the blue chamber in the guest wing.”
“Nay,” Ciaran said, surprising himself. “The Dun room.”
A moment of shocked silence followed. The MacKenzie room was reserved for only the most honored guests—or family. Elspeth’s mouth opened, then closed, before she nodded and hurried away.
Several of his household warriors had gathered at a discreet distance, curious about the unexpected arrival and the unknown woman at their laird’s side. Ciaran could already see the questions in their eyes, the seeds of gossip that would spread through the castle by morning.
“Callum,” he called to his captain of the guard. “Double the watch taenight. There may be riders about in our territory.”
“Aye, m’laird.” The burly man bowed slightly, his hand going instinctively to his sword hilt. “Shall I send scouts tae the borders?”
“At first light,” Ciaran replied. “And send word tae Finlay. Tell him I require his counsel on an urgent matter.”
As the men dispersed to carry out his orders, Ciaran turned to find his mysterious guest watching him with those penetrating blue eyes, a question in their depths. The torchlight played across her features, highlighting the proud tilt of her chin despite her bedraggled state.
“Come,” he said, offering his arm. “Let’s tend tae that wound.”
She hesitated, then placed her gloved hand lightly on his forearm. “Ye need nae bother yerself, m’laird. I’m perfectly capable—”
“I’ve nay doubt ye are,” he interrupted, leading her toward the keep. “But humor me. I rarely get to practice my healing skills on someone who isnae a blood-soaked warrior twice yer size.”
Her lips twitched, almost a smile. “And how dae ye ken I’m nae simply a small warrior?”
Ciaran looked down at her, taking in the fine bone structure of her face, the elegant posture that spoke of years of training in a noble household. “Oh, I’ve nay doubt ye’re a warrior, lass,” he said softly. “Just nae the kind I usually patch up after battle.”
As they entered the great hall, servants hurried to light additional torches. The massive stone hearth blazed with fresh logs, casting dancing shadows across ancient tapestries and gleaming weapons mounted on the walls. Ciaran watched her eyes widen as she took in the grandeur of his ancestral home and felt an unexpected surge of pride.
Who was this woman who fought like a wildcat, spoke like nobility, and now looked around his castle with barely concealed wonder? By dawn, he intended to know.
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…
