July, Keppoch Castle, Lochaber, fifteen years earlier
Ach, dinnae be such a baby, Agnes, I’m only gonnae show it tae ye! What are ye runnin’ away fer, ye wee goose?” Duncan said, laughing as he chased his little sister along the narrow fringe of gravelly sand at the edge of Loch Machie, with a long silvery eel dangling from his hand.
The four friends were spending the warm July day at the loch, amusing themselves on one of their frequent outings while their parents were otherwise engaged. Eileen and Conrad’s father, Evander Mackintosh, war leader of their clan, was talking politics with Agnes and Duncan’s father, his old friend, the Laird James MacDonald. Their respective mothers, Lady May and Lady Fiona, also great friends, were spending the day shopping in the nearby Lochaber. Their off-spring were at liberty to do as they pleased, and it usually involved a lot of teasing and pranks.
Eileen was sitting on a large rock at the water’s edge, fishing for crayfish with a hook tied to a bit of string baited with bread. Furious at seeing her younger friend terrorized, she yelled at Duncan, “Leave her be, ye beast! Duncan, ye ken she hates eels. Ye’re scarin’ her!”
“I’m nae gonnae dae anythin’ with it, just show it tae her, ’tis all,” Duncan claimed, laughing uproariously.
“Ye liar, ye said ye were gonnae put it down me neck!” Agnes shouted back at him, running as fast as her legs little ten-year-old legs would carry her, close to tears.
Eileen huffed and jumped from the rock to the sand, to run after Duncan, eager to defend Agnes. “Leave her be, I say!”
Duncan took no notice but continued pursuing his terrified little sister along the narrow fringe of beach, waving the unfortunate eel. “I was jokin’. If ye stop runnin’, I promise tae nae put it down yer back. Just have a look at it, will ye,” he yelled after her.
“I dinnae believe ye!” Agnes cried. She let out a shrill shriek of panic as he caught up with he and grabbed her arm, dangling the writhing creature over her head.
“Nay, nay! Get it away from me, Duncan! I hate ye, get off of me” Agnes screamed, cringing away from the slimy muscular fish as it brushed against her hair, squirming and gasping for air.
“Get it away from me, ye pig!” She shrank away, desperately batting at the eel with one small hand, repulsed by it, while the other bunched up the neckline of her shift, for she was scared he really would put it down her back.
“Ugh, ’tis all slimy and cold. Think how it’ll wriggle when I put it down yer neck,” Duncan crowed, holding the eel high and pulling at the neck of her shift.
Agnes exploded with panic, screaming non-stop at the top of her voice, kicking at him to get away. Suddenly, there was a thud, a loud “Oof!”, and Duncan and the eel were gone.
With a sideways peep, Agnes saw her brother stumbling backwards into the water, still clutching the eel. He fell backwards and landed with a splash on his backside. The eel flew from his hand and, with a flash of silver, slipped away.
“I hope it bites yer bum!” she shouted at him vengefully through her sniffles.
A tall shadow fell over her, blocking out the sun, and she felt someone crouch down at her side.
“Are ye all right, Agnes,” asked the deep voice kindly. Hearing it, the panic and fear began to recede like an outgoing tide. A strong, sun-tanned arm went around her shoulders comfortingly. She looked up into a pair of eyes that were bluer than the sky above and a smile that made her feel warm inside.
“Aye, I’m all right now, Conrad. Thank ye fer savin’ me,” she murmured, dropping her eyes, suddenly feeling shy. Sniffing, she surreptitiously wiped her nose with the back of her hand, embarrassed at her babyish behavior in front of him. At fourteen, he seemed so grownup. He was her hero.
Eileen skidded to a halt and crashed down onto the sand next to them, panting. “He’s a menace, that braither of yers,” she puffed.
“Aye, he is,” Agnes agreed.
“Grand. Come on, up ye get.” Conrad’s large hand reached down. She placed hers in it, liking the safe feeling it gave her when it closed around hers. He pulled her easily to her feet, and Eileen got up and helped her brush off her petticoat.
Conrad, arms akimbo, walked down to the water’s edge and shouted at her brother, who had by now clambered to his feet and was standing in the loch, squeezing the water from his hair. “Pick on someone eyer own size, Duncan. I told ye before, dinnae scare her like that. She’s only wee.”
“Aye, she’s a wee baby,” Duncan said, sloshing out of the water onto the sand. “She’s scared of everything,” he added, glancing at his sister with boyish disdain.
“Agnes is only ten. ’Tis nae fair tae torment her like that. If ye keep on, she’ll be too scared tae come out with us,” Conrad pointed out. The imaginary halo Agnes had already placed around his head shone even brighter.
“Ach, it was only a bit of fun, I wasnae really gonnae put it down her back,” Duncan protested.
“If ’tis fun ye want, then then why dinnae try puttin’ an eel down me back?” Conrad taunted him with a challenging grin.
“Wait ’til I catch another one and I bloody well will,” Duncan declared, hurling himself at his friend. Eileen and Agnes stood and watched while the boys fell to the ground and rolled round, wrestling, punching each other, and laughing as they so often did.
“Stupid boys,” Eileen pronounced derisively. “Come on, Agnes, let’s go and eat some more of that cake.” The girls held hands and walked back down the strand, to the blanket spread out there, which contained the remainder of their picnic luncheon.
“Conrad’s nae stupid, he’s kind,” Agnes said, brushing her long dark hair aside as her friend handed her a lump of yellow seedcake. “He rescued me.” She bit into the cake with relish.
Eileen chuckled as she set about her cake. “They’re both just as bad at times. Ye ken how they love teasin’ us. That’s the trouble with older braithers. All boys really,” she added wisely. “That’s why I’m never gonnae get married.”
“I think I’d like tae get married one day,” Agnes said, secretly eyeing Duncan as he pummeled her brother. No boy was more handsome than him in her eyes, with his strong build and golden hair. She thought of him as a fairy-tale prince, the sort in books that rescued captive princesses and then fell in love with them.
I hate bein’ ten, she thought. If I was fourteen, then Conrad might fall in love with me, and we’d get betrothed, and when we’re grownup, we’d get married. It was a frequent fantasy of hers, one she would never tell a soul, not even Eileen.
The boys finished their fighting and came to join them, friends again. They plopped down onto the blanket beside their sisters.
“I’m sorry about the eel, Agnes,” Duncan apologized. “I was only teasin’ ye. I didnae think ye’d be so scared.” He ruffled her hair affectionately, and she could not help but smile. She adored her big brother, even if he did tease her. He looked after her as well, and she looked up to him.
“I wasnae scared. I was only pretendin’” Agnes said, not wanting to seem babyish in front of her hero. Embarrassingly, they all laughed at her obvious fib.
“Well, I felt sorry fer the poor eel,” Eileen, raising another laugh. Agnes was very grateful to her friend for the distraction.
With harmony restored, they ate some more of their picnic. Then, to make it up to Agnes, Duncan suggested a game of tag, one of her favorites. When at last they packed up their things and began the walk back to the castle, they had not gone very far when an argument broke out between Duncan and Eileen about who was the fastest runner.
“How can ye be faster than me? Ye’re too small,” Duncan told her. At almost fifteen, he was as tall and strong as their father. He and Conrad had been training with weapons from an early age, and it showed. She and Eileen loved to go and watch them spar together. Eileen, on the other hand, was a mere eleven.
“I may be small, but I’m very fast. Are ye scared too race me in case I beat ye?” Eileen taunted Duncan, never one to back down from a challenge.
Conrad laughed. “Aye, he wouldnae live it down tae be beaten by a lassie,” he said.
Naturally, it ended in a race. While Duncan and Eileen sprinted off over the fields, Agnes and Conrad ambled along slowly side by side. Agnes was perfectly content with the situation.
“It’s been a grand day out, eh, Agnes? I love spending the day down on the beach when we come and visit ye,” he said, looking down at her from a great height.
“Aye, so dae I. ’Tis a shame ye’re goin’ back tae Moy Hall with yer parents tomorrow. I wish ye and Eileen could live here with me and Duncan. It would be so much fun.”
He chuckled, his eyes sparking. “That would be grand. But I think me faither plans tae finish his clan business with yers tonight. Ma says we’re all gonnae have a big dinner together after that.”
“I ken, and me and Eileen are allowed tae stay up late,” Agnes said, feeling tired and wondering if she would be able to stay awake that long. The long day at the beach, all the fun and games, and the hot sun were taking their toll. She did not want to miss a moment of Conrad’s company and definitely did not want to fall asleep in front of him like a baby. It would be too embarrassing.
Maybe it was thinking about it that made her want to yawn. Even though she tried to stifle it, Conrad noticed. She was mortified.
“Are ye tired, Agnes?”
“Nay, I’m fine,” she insisted.
He gave one of his lazy grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a nice, kind way. “Ye wee fibber. Aye, ye are.” He stopped suddenly, so she stopped too.
“Come on and hop up on me back, I’ll give ye a piggy-back ride the rest of the way home. We dinnae want ye fallin’ asleep at dinner tonight, eh, and missin’ the fun?” he said, adjusting the cloth bag containing the picnic things so she could climb on his back.
So, Agnes found herself riding on Conrad’s broad back the rest of the way back to the castle, her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms curled around his neck, with his blond hair tickling her nose.
She felt like a princess. And in her childish heart Conrad was her prince.
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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…
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“’Tis wonderful tae have the family all together like this. They’re quite an impressive bunch,” Agnes said, squeezing Conrad’s arm in hers as they strolled across the grass.
“Aye, I suppose they are, but they have a tendency tae have very noisy bairns,” he pretended to grumble, eliciting laughter from Agnes. She was looking out over the lawn at their family, all gathered together, in the gardens of Moy Hall.
It was a balmy September day, and gentle music from a harpist floated on the air, along with the excited shouts and laughter of children coming from somewhere out of sight. The Mackintosh clan had come in numbers to celebrate Roisin’s tenth birthday, two generations of them, Conrad’s cousins and their parents, his aunts and uncles.
On a flag-stoned area to the side of the lawn stood a long table loaded with the remains of a lavish birthday tea, all manner of drink, plus the remains of a large, iced birthday cake. Lounging around the table, drinking and chatting were her parents, Duncan, Eileen, Evander and May, and two of Conrad’s uncles.
Seated on one side of the table was his cousin Kathleen and her husband Blaine, along with their daughter Anabel. Kathleen, the daughter of Conrad’s uncle Bran and his wife Illyssa, was a stunning, auburn-haired beauty, rather wild in nature, and a renowned horsewoman. Her long auburn tresses mingled with Blaine’s dark, unruly locks as they leaned together, sipping wine, talking and laughing with Conrad’s other cousin the more restrained Diana.
Agnes liked Diana, a maverick, who was interested in the healing arts despite her noble position. She was serious, practical, and kind, and adored by her enigmatic husband Lorne, a man of few words who was obviously smitten with his wife and right now cuddling their baby son Diarmaid.
Not far from them, canoodling shamelessly, was Conrad’s striking cousin Kieran. Rather like Conrad, with his blonde hair and stormy-grey, Kieran was imperative to look at and charismatic. Yet he seemed to have found his match in the beautiful, spirited Alina. They watched their twins, Nathaniel and Eloise, running around and teasing each other like only a brother and sister could.
Their parents were present too. Alec, Laird of Clan Mackintosh was leaning a mighty arm on the table, his long blond hair tied back from his face, a slightly older version of Evander. Also there was Bran, Alec and Evander’s brother and the clan’s advisor. They were large, powerful, good-looking men, as were all the Mackintosh men, it seemed to Agnes. Their respective wives, Kira and Ilyssa, had taken off their shoes and were dancing on the grass nearby to the harp music, giggling and looking rather tipsy.
“Ach, they look so pretty, eh, Conrad, like flowers in their beautiful dresses,” Agnes observed, smiling and waving at them. They waved back merrily, both looking a little worse for wear. She liked them both enormously. Kira was funny and bold, while Illyssa was terribly mischievous and always dreaming up pranks to play on the men.
“Agnes, Conrad, come and join us,” Ilyssa called to them, waving them over.
“Aye, come and have a wee dance,” Kira said and hiccoughed. “Och, pardon me, ’tis that new wine from France ye’ve been plyin’ us with, Conrad. ’Tis a little too moorish if ye ken what I mean. I’m a wee bit tipsy, I think.” As if to prove it, she spun around and bumped into Illyssa, sending them both into paroxysms of laughter.
“Disgustin’ display of drunkenness,” Conrad complained. “I’m nae letting me wife consort with the likes of ye two. What sort of an example are ye setting fer the young folk?”
“A bad one, I hope,” Ilyssa said laughingly. “They should grow up learnin’ how tae have a little fun. What is this wine ye’ve given us, Conrad? I declare, it’s gone straight tae me head. I think I’ll have another wee glass of the stuff.”
“’Tis a new import from the region of Champagne in France. I’m interested tae hear what ye all think of it, seein’ as ’tis our new family venture,” Conrad replied before flicking his eyes at the servant manning the drinks and holding up four fingers. The man nodded and hurried to pour.
“Well, I love it,” Kira said. “It makes me wantae dance.”
The fresh champagne arrived and the four stood chatting for a few minutes. Another of Conrad’s cousins, Lavinia, a delicate but feisty blue-eyed beauty, and her husband Ian, Laird MacBean came to join them with their son Archibald. The MacBean’s and the Mackintoshes had long been allies and friends, and growing up, Conrad had spent a lot of time with Ian. Conrad and Agnes continued the stroll, taking their wine with them.
Not far away, Conrad’s beautiful Aunt Catreena, known as the ice maiden because of her stunning Nordic looks, was dancing in a clinch with her husband, Illyssa’s brother Tad, Laird MacBean. Tad’s large frame and fearsome dark looks were the perfect contrast to the slender Catreena’s icy, blondeness, which concealed a warm, generous heart. She and Illyssa were best friends, and she often laughingly complained that Illyssa led her astray and got her into trouble.
At that moment, the excited shrieks of what sounded like a horde of children grew suddenly louder, and they burst out onto the lawn from some shrubbery. There were nine children in all, with the birthday girl being the eldest at ten. Going on twenty, Conrad often teased her. They adored each other and of all their three children, she most resembled her father. Their youngest, little Rhiannon, was only two. She was having nap back at the castle under Saoirse’s watchful eye.
At the head of the explosion of children was Conrad’s Uncle Dunn, sporting a wide grin and carrying on his broad shoulders Agnes’ and Conrad’s three-year-old son, Sullivan, named after his great-great grandfather.
Dunn was the clan’s chief scout and, though quite scary to look at, was full of fun. Whenever the family got together, he was always the one organizing the games that kept the children entertained. They loved him and as far as they were concerned any party without him was a disappointment.
Now, he came trotting over the grass, holding onto Sullivan’s fat little legs, while the lad shouted and laughed merrily. “Gee up, horsey,” he cried happily, tugging on his uncle’s ears.
Dunn saw them and made an agonized face, as if fearing their son would pull his ears right off, which set them both giggling.
The tribe of high-spirited children scattered over the lawn, noisily engrossed in their games, or rushed to the tea table to top up on treats or lemonade. Their parents smiled on them indulgently, perhaps under the benign influence of the champagne they had all being drinking.
Coming at a more leisurely pace behind the others was Elayne, Dunn’s lovely young wife. At seven months pregnant with their second child, she was glowing. Like Dunn, she adored children. “I cannae wait tae have a whole tribe of them,” she was fond of saying. And Dunn would always make them laugh by saying he was going as fast as he could but would be happy to step up production if it pleased her.
Holding Elayne’s hand was Roisin herself, in her new, white, broderie-Anglaise party dress, of which she was mightily proud. Today, she had insisted on Soairse doing her hair in a plaited crown, like Mary Queen of Scots, she said. She was a very happy girl, because that morning, she had been presented her very own pony, a little piebald mare she had immediately christened Patches.
“Och, she looks quite the wee lady, eh, Conrad?” Agnes said proudly, waving at her daughter.
“Aye, she daes, but I’d prefer it if she stayed at ten. Ten is old enough. I dinnae want her tae grow up. I wantae keep me sweet Little Flower sweet fer as long as I can.”
“Och, ye great soft thing,” Agnes said affectionately, pulling him down to kiss his lips. “But aye, ’tis sad that they grow up so quick,” Agnes said wistfully. “I suppose there’s only one solution tae that problem.”
“Oh, aye? What’s that then?” Conrad asked.
“Why, keep on havin’ more of them, of course.” She gave him a smile that said she had a secret.
His eyes widened. “Nay,” he said, halting them on the spot.
“Aye.”
He gave a great whoop and seized her around the waist, lifting her off her feet and whirling her about until she begged him to stop because it was making her dizzy. Carefully he placed her on her feet. She grabbed at his arm, her head spinning.
“When’s it gonnae arrive?” he asked, putting his arm around her shoulders to steady her, pulling her close as they resumed the walk.
“Around Hogmanay, the healer thinks,” she replied, thrilled by his reaction.
They reached a stone bench in an alcove cut into the high box hedge. It was a suntrap, so they decided to sit down. Conrad crossed his legs and put his arm around Agnes. She leaned against him happily, her hand resting on his thigh.
“So, what d’ye think of this wine?” he asked, holding the crystal glass up to the light and admiring the pale golden liquid. He had recently formed a business importing the wine from the Champagne region of France, in exchange for the single malt whisky he produced in the distillery he had constructed in the castle. It was proving most profitable.
“’Tis delicious but it goes tae me head real quick. It makes me feel quite… frisky,” Agnes confessed with a twinkle in her eye.
Conrad quirked his brows. “Daes it now? That’s very interestin’. I may havetae dae some further research intae that aspect of it.”
“I’m sure ye will,” she replied. They sat quietly for a few moments, bathed in mutual contentment, sipping their champagne and looking out over the happy children and the entire Mackintosh clan. Agnes was enormously proud of her family. She loved being a part of it. And so did Roisin, for she had so many cousins to play with and was never lonely.
“Aye, the Mackintoshes are quite an impressive lot,” she mused.
“Aye, nae a bad bunch, I suppose,” Conrad agreed with a nod. “But personally, I find a certain MacDonald more tae me taste.”
“Oh? Who d’ye mean?” she asked coquettishly.
In response, he bent down and pressed his lips to her decolletage, sucking on the skin gently and grazing it with his teeth.
“Oooh,” Agnes tittered excitedly. “I’m feelin’ even more frisky now.”
He shook his head. “Woman, curb yersel’. This is nae the place and time. We’re at our daughter’s birthday party. Much as I’d like tae drag ye behind a bush and ravish ye, it wouldnae be proper.”
“Well, we’re nae the only ones. Look at Bran and Illyssa.”
Conrad looked and burst out laughing. His uncle was in a clinch with his wife and was slowly dancing her into some flowering bushes, obviously with nefarious intentions.
“And the others are nae much better,” Agnes pointed out. And indeed she was right, for all the elder Mackintoshes were dancing now. Alec and Kira were welded together and kissing, Tad was spinning Catreena about under his arm. As they watched, she fell into his arms, and he peppered her neck with small kisses. Even Dunn and Elayne, who were sitting with the children, were mooning at each other.
Conrad held up his glass again and examined the champagne. “It certainly daes see tae have an effect,” he said ponderingly. “Drink up, wifey.” He swallowed the last of his wine and stood up, putting the glass on the bench and then giving Agnes his hand. She followed suit and placed her glass next to his on the bench.
“Where are we goin’?” she asked as he steered them down a little path through the box hedge, away from the party area.
“Foe a wee walk. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere where I can show ye how much I love ye in private.”
“Show me?” she asked, her pulse starting to race.
“Aye. We Mackintosh men are nae always so good with words. But were very good at action.”
“Conrad, the way ye’re talkin’, I’m thinkin’ that ye’re feelin’ frisky as well,” she said playfully, looking up at him with an adoring smile. “’Tis that French champagne I tell ye!”
“Nay. ’tis ye, Agnes, me beautiful wife. Mo Ròisín. I love ye so much, and ye’ve given me a happiness I never dreamed could be mine. I want tae show ye me appreciation.”
“Och, I love ye with all me heart too, me darlin’ man, forever and ever.”
“Grand, I’ll never get tired of hearin’ ye say that.”
She screamed with laughter as he suddenly scooped her up in his arms and carried her off down the pathways, in search of that quiet place where they could show each other the deep enduring love they shared.
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
November 1715,
Keppoch Castle, Lochaber, the Scottish Highlands
“Saoirse, ye’re hurtin’ me. ’Tis way too tight.” Lady Agnes MacDonald exclaimed as she braced herself with her arms against the bedpost while her maid laced her into her corset.
“Yer maither says I must tie it at tight as possible and snatch yer stomach,” Saoirse replied, but in her usual kindly fashion, she relented enough to loosen the lacing so her mistress could breathe more easily and stopped feeling pain in her belly. For the moment, at least. “Here, put this on,” she added, fetching a voluminous travel cloak from the bed and draping it around Agnes’s shoulders. It enveloped her small frame from head to toe. “It’ll hide a multitude of sins,” Saoirse told her with a wink.
“Thank ye, Saoirse,” Agnes told her with gratitude. “Now, have we packed everythin’ I’ll need?” She glanced around the room to see if they had forgotten anything. The chamber she had occupied for the whole of her twenty years seemed stripped to the bone, all the little personal items she had gathered over the years gone, packed and loaded onto a separate carriage that would follow them the next day. All that was left was the furniture, a few ornaments, some unwanted items of clothing, and a rumpled coverlet on the four-poster bed where she had spent many idle, happy hours daydreaming, reading, and sleeping.
“Nay, I’ve checked and checked twice already,” Saoirse replied, picking up a large tapestry bag that was almost bursting and going to open the chamber door. “We’re ready tae go.”
Agnes collected her reticule from the vanity and followed the maid out into the hallway with a heavy heart. “I wonder how long it’ll be before I come back here again tae me old chambers. Maybe I’ll nae come back at all,” she said sadly. The thought of leaving the only home she had ever known was both daunting and heartbreaking.
“Now, none of that sort of talk,” Saoirse chided gently as they made their way along the hallway in the direction of the staircase. “Of course, ye’ll be back. Folks go away from their homes all the time. Look at me, for instance. And they live tae tell the tale, and so will ye, me lady. So stop yer mitherin’ and cheer up. ’Tis nae the end of the world. But we’d best keep an eye out when we get downstairs. We dinnae wantae bump intae yer faither on the way, eh?”
That had Agnes quickening her steps as they started down the stairs. She had weathered too many black looks of angry disapproval from her father in the last day or so to last her a lifetime. He must be avoided if at all possible, and she had no expectation he would come and wave her off.
“Besides, ’tis nae as though we’re goin’ tae the moon. ’Tis only France, and that’s just across the water. People go there all the time. I’ll be with ye, and ye’re goin’ tae stay with yer own family as well. Really, me lady, in the circumstances, there’s little tae complain of,” the ever-practical Saoirse said on the way down.
They reached the bottom of the stairs, their booted footsteps noiseless on the thick rugs as they made their way down the broad, lamplit corridor leading to the castle’s main hallway.
“Aye, I ken ye’re right, Saoirse, but I cannae help feelin’ sad and a bit nervous. I’ve never been tae France afore, and me Aunt Morag and her family are practically strangers,” Agnes confessed to her trusted confidante.
“Aye, and I’ve never been tae France afore either. At least ye can speak French! I cannae, so I truly will be among strangers. But I’ve heard the French gentlemen are very handsome and charmin’ though, so it cannae be all bad. Maybe I’ll come back with a nice French husband, eh? That would be a turn up for the books, would it nae? Think of what me ma would say tae that. She’d have a fit!”
Agnes managed a weak smile at that scenario, being well acquainted with Saoirse’s eccentric mother. She was truly grateful for her maid’s ceaseless attempts to keep her spirits up, even if they were not entirely successful in easing the general sense of unease that held her in its grasp.
“I must go ahead of ye, me lady, tae make sure the hand luggage has been put in the right carriage,” Saoirse muttered, hurrying ahead of Agnes along the corridor, clutching the bulging tapestry bag in her arms as if it were a fat child.
“Aye, all right,” Agnes said, pleased to have an excuse to dawdle a little and take a last look at the familiar surroundings, knowing she would not see them again for some time. Years probably. Things had happened so fast since the day before, her head was still spinning, and she had not had time to say goodbye properly to anything or anyone she valued, or so she felt.
She had stopped to take a final look at her favourite painting, when a hand clamped around her arm, and she found herself being pulled backwards.
“What-what—!” she gasped, bewildered when she was dragged bodily into the cupboard on the opposite side of the wall, into stuffy darkness, to be crushed against a large, warm body.
“Haud yer wheesht, sister,” came a familiar voice next to her ear, low and conspiratorial.
Relief flooded through her. “Duncan! What d’ye think ye’re daein’?” she cried, before he clamped a hand over her mouth. “Wheesht, I told ye. D’ye want Faither tae hear us?” he hissed at her. “Listen, here he comes,” he added in a whisper.
Frozen, Agnes listened. Heavy footsteps were coming along the corridor, unmistakably their father’s. She and Duncan held their breath, and Agnes wondered why he seemed as concerned as she was that they should not be discovered by him. Duncan was the son and heir, literally the blue-eyed boy in Laird MacDonald’s view. The steps passed in front of the cupboard door, and she heard her father’s voice.
“Apparently, he’s on his way here now,” he was saying, sounding none too pleased. “He could arrive at any moment. Dinnae keep him waitin’. As soon as he gets here, show him straight tae me study.”
“Aye, me laird.” Agnes recognized the voice of Willy Grey, her father’s steward, answering him.
Thankfully, the pair continued on past the cupboard and into the depths of the castle. The siblings both breathed out. After a few moments of intense listening to make sure the danger had passed, Duncan opened the door a crack and peeked out. “The coast is clear,” he said stepping in to the corridor and giving Agnes his hand to help her out too.
“Duncan, why did ye have tae drag me intae that cupboard?” she quizzed him in irritation as she brushed dust from her cloak.
“Ye must hurry, Agnes,” he told her, his voice low but filled with urgency. She grew more irritated when he took hold of her arm again and began pulling her along the corridor, forcing her to trot to keep up with his long strides.
“Whatever fer? There’s nay rush,” she replied, wondering what the emergency was.
“Aye, there is. I’m nae jokin’. Ye really must hurry. Maither’s already in the carriage in the courtyard waitin’ fer ye.”
“What? Why?” Agnes asked, puzzled as they rushed along.
“Because Faither had a message just half an hour ago tae say that Laird Tavish MacDonnell of Glengarry is on his way here, and he’s due tae arrive any minute. He cannae see ye, and ye must be gone before he gets here.”
The news was indeed alarming. Realizing that Duncan was right, she had to be away from the castle before Laird MacDonnell arrived—to avoid embarrassing her parents—she stepped up her pace to keep level with Duncan, hurrying alongside him down the corridor, heading for towards the castle’s main exit. “What’s he comin’ here fer anyway?” he asked.
“He wants yer hand in marriage, Agnes.”
“He what?!” She suddenly stopped dead, shaking off his grip as shock and disbelief ran through her. She had no idea MacDonnell even knew of her existence. “He wants tae wed me?”
Duncan grabbed her arm again and resumed his rapid pace. “Aye. He wrote tae Faither sayin’ he wants tae marry ye, and Faither was keen tae accept the offer.”
Agnes bristled with fury. “He was gonnae accept it? Well, what a nerve! He wanted tae wed me tae that man, and he never even consulted me on the matter.”
“Dinnae be a child, sister,” Duncan said matter-of-factly as they sped along. “Ye’re the daughter of a laird. It was tae have been a strategic marriage, a union of alliance between the two clans. Yer opinion would have been neither here nor there. ‘Tis nae required that ye should like yer husband in such marriages.”
“But he couldnae have seriously expected me tae wed a monster like MacDonnell?” she said, her anger at her father flaring as the full implications of what Duncan was telling her sank in. It occurred to her that, while the situation she found herself was far from ideal, she had in fact had a lucky escape from what would undoubtedly have been a life of misery. MacDonnell was a famously brutal man, warlike and violent.
“Well, ‘tis out of the question now. In the circumstances, Faither had nae choice but tae write back tae MacDonnell refusin’ his offer fer yer hand,” her brother explained, picking up their already rapid pace.
“So, why’s he comin’ here then?” Agnes asked, puffing along next to him.
“I’ve nae idea. Maybe because he hasnae seen Faither’s letter yet or maybe because he has and he’s furious about bein’ turned down. It daesnae matter now. Faither has nae choice but meet him face tae face and reject his offer in person.”
“Ach, Lord above!” Agnes murmured, furious at her father for arranging such a dreadful match for her. As far as she was concerned, it served him right if he had to suffer the embarrassment of telling MacDonnell to his face that his offer of marriage had been rejected. “I’m glad I’ll nae have tae marry him,” she added.
“Ach, but it brings us many problems,” Duncan said.
“What d’ye mean by that? I suppose ye’d like tae see me wed tae MacDonnell as well, is that it?” she demanded, somewhat hurt as well as offended by her brother’s attitude.
“Ach, Jaysus! Of course, I wouldnae, ye wee fool. But d’ye nae ken what sort of man MacDonnell is?”
“Aye, a cruel brute.”
“Exactly. He’s unlikely tae take the refusal well. He likes tae get what he wants, and if he’s thwarted, he’ll likely resort tae makin’ war against us in revenge.”
“Ye mean he could start a feud with Faither?” Agnes asked with a mixture of fear and guilt as the true horror of the situation she had wrought started to dawn on her. Was she going to be indirectly responsible for starting a war where her clansfolk and even her family members could die? It felt overwhelming.
“Aye, ’tis a big risk,” Duncan replied as they reached the castle’s entrance hall, where Duncan halted them by the main door.
“But what will Faither say tae him?” Agnes asked anxiously.
Duncan let go of her hand. “Wait,” he instructed, opening the door slightly and looking outside for signs of the visitor. “He’s nae here yet. Come on, hurry.” Grabbing Agnes hand again, he pulled her outside and down the steps into the torchlit courtyard.
“He’s gonnae tell him that ye’re ill and at death’s door,” he explained as they walked rapidly towards the waiting carriage, which stood a few yards in front of them. The breath of the horses billowed out like clouds of white smoke into the freezing air, and Saoirse stood by the door, hugging herself and stamping her feet against the cold, waiting for Agnes.
“Why is he gonnae tell him that?” a mystified Agnes asked as Duncan hurried her on, scanning the area for hints of the visitor.
“What else can he say? Ye’ve nae left him a lot of choice. He can hardly tell him the truth.” They stopped next to Saoirse. Any misunderstanding between the siblings fell away as Duncan kissed Agnes’ cheek, and the pair embraced each other warmly.
“I’ll miss ye, Braither,” she said truthfully, hating the tremor in her voice. She needed to appear strong.
“Dinnae worry, Sister. France is yer best option now. Ye’ll be safe there, and I’ll be over tae visit ye as soon as I can.”
“Aye, thank ye, Duncan. Take care of yersel’ until then,” she told him, determinedly holding back her tears.
He opened the carriage door and handed her up the steps, then helped Saoirse in after her. While she and Agnes settled in their seats, he poked his head inside and said quickly, “Goodbye fer now. Have a safe journey, all of ye. I’ll see ye soon, Maither, when ye return.”
“Aye, Son,” Lady MacDonald replied despondently from her seat opposite the two young women. Duncan closed the door and banged on the side of the vehicle to signal to the driver to be off. The carriage moved rapidly out through the castle gates and down the twisting road. They were heading north to the port of Aberdeen where, in three days’ time, they would board a ship bound for mainland France.
In the darkness of the carriage, Agnes looked across at her mother. Even at fifty, Lady Fiona MacDonald was still considered to be a beautiful woman. On this cold night, her petite frame was swathed in furs. Her soft, once golden-brown hair, now slightly faded with age, was hidden beneath an elegant fur hat. Her delicate, almost girlish features peeped out from within the nest of fur like the face of a perfect little doll.
But it was her expression of deep sadness and disappointment that struck at Agnes like a knife, because she knew she was the cause of it. She thought it a mercy that the dim light in the carriage prevented her from looking into the blue grey of mother’s eyes and feeling even worse about the pain she knew she was inflicting upon her. It was far, far more agonizing to hurt her mother than face the harsh, cold anger of her father.
However, despite all this, Agnes was too proud to abase herself, to cry and beg for forgiveness from either of her parents. No, she was determined to hold her head high, be strong, to show she was not ashamed of what she had done. So, when she finally spoke to her mother as the carriage bowled swiftly down the well-used and therefore relatively even road, her tone was unwavering and forthright.
“Maither, is it right that ye and Faither are seriously plannin’ tae tell Laird MacDonnell that I’m at death’s door with some sort of sickness?”
Her mother looked at her sharply. “Well, what else d’ye imagine we could say? The truth? That ye’re ruined and can never be a nobleman’s wife? Tellin’ him yer life is in danger from some sort of illness is the only thing we can say that might, I say might, nae offend him and start a war. The clan is nae strong enough tae fight him. That was why we needed the marriage alliance with him in the first place. Which ye’ve now wrecked by yer irresponsible actions.”
Agnes was once more taken aback by the harshness of her tone, which was so unusual for her. But her mother had not finished it seemed and went on in the same manner. “I mean, with the situation as it is, ’tis nae as though ye can wed another man powerful enough tae take MacDonnell on, is it? If we put it about that ye’ve died, then we’d risk gossip gettin’ out that it isnae true, which if MacDonnell gets wind of, will also likely mean war.
“And it would mean ye couldnae return tae Scotland without putting yersel’ and all of us at great risk. Ye’ve backed us intae a corner, Daughter. This is the only way.” She subsided angrily into her furs like a disgruntled chicken with badly ruffled feathers.
Agnes knew it was all true, every word. Yet despite the danger posed by MacDonnell and her feelings of guilt over the situation—or perhaps defensiveness because of it—something in her rebelled against the web of lies her parents were spinning around her, which they expected her to simply accept. Would the truth, though embarrassing to them, have been so bad to admit? Was this farce she was being forced to play out to prevent Laird MacDonnell from making war on their clan? Or was it to save face?
Acting on impulse, she met her mother’s angry gaze defiantly. Pulling aside her cloak, she shifted in her seat until her back was turned to Saoirse and said to the maid, “Saoirse, will ye unlace this bloody corset, fer God’s sake? I think me maither’s tryin’ tae kill me. I cannae breathe.”
Saoirse looked hesitantly from one to the other of them. But finally, being the faithful friend and helper she was to her young mistress, or perhaps figuring that since she and Agnes would soon be in France, there was little Lady MacDonald could do to punish her, she did as she was asked.
Her mother shook her head. “Ye ken, Agnes, I hardly recognize ye. Where’s that calm and dutiful daughter of old, eh? Ye were always sensible, even as a child, stayin’ out of trouble, respectful and obedient tae me and yer faither. But now look at ye. A reckless woman with nay regard fer either her own good or that of others, a woman who’s made a huge mistake that’s gonnae ruin her life and maybe start a war.”
Provoked by her mother’s accusation, Agnes placed her hand ostentatiously on her belly and said, “Ye can call me what ye like, Maither, but I’ll nae allow ye or anyone tae call me bairn a mistake.”
Her mother snorted in derision. “Ach, ye’re so proud of yersel’, are ye nae? But ye’re a foolish child if ye believe ye can keep the faither’s name a secret forever.”
“I’ll nae be tellin’ ye nor anyone if I dinnae choose tae. I’ll keep it a secret if I havetae take it tae me grave!” Agnes snapped back, her nerves at breaking point with the recent news and heartily sick of having been grilled on the subject of the father’s identity by both her parents for hours.
And ye can bet that fer as long as I live, I’ll nae be tellin’ Faither who the faither of me bairn is!
Chapter 2
Five years later,
July 1720, on the road to Keppoch Castle
The carriage wheels kept up a steady rhythm as the vehicle rolled along the road, heading for the home Agnes had not seen for five long years. She was back on Scottish soil once again, unexpectedly.
She had returned because her Aunt Morag, with whom she had been living in France, had succumbed to the feverish sickness which had been sweeping across Europe for several months. The poor woman was gravely ill, and though Agnes hated to leave her, it was decided that she and her four-year old daughter Roisin would be safer if they returned to Scotland until the danger had passed. Naturally, the ever-faithful Saoirse was accompanying them home.
It had been a long and tiring journey and by the time they drew near to Castle Keppoch, it was late. The sun had just sunk below the horizon, staining the sky in startling shades of pink, apricot, and lemon, which were gradually being overtaken by darkness. The July night was warm, and the interior of the carriage felt stuffy to Agnes, although it might have been partly due to her restlessness. She was wide awake, itching to reach the castle and get out of the carriage.
In contrast, Saoirse was dozing, her dark head bobbing against the back of the seat with every turn of the wheels and mercifully, an over-excited Roisin had finally fallen asleep on Agnes’ lap. Agnes was absently stroking her daughter’s silky hair as she slumbered, her little thumb in her mouth.
In the quietude, Agnes was thinking of Duncan. She was looking forward to seeing him most of all. He and her mother had last visited them in France six months ago, but it seemed like an eternity now. When Roisin had been born, Agnes’ mother had been smitten with her granddaughter, and Agnes knew Roisin would never lack for love from that quarter.
Likewise, Duncan had taken to being an uncle like a duck to water. Roisin adored him, and the pair had spent hours playing together. Agnes delighted in witnessing this different side to her otherwise tough brother, a softer, protective side which told her he would make a wonderful father to his own children one day.
And yet, she was filled with trepidation, hence her restlessness. Because there was someone else at the castle awaiting them, someone she could not be sure would welcome Roisin so warmly. Her father. Once she had longed for his approval, but now, she no longer cared very much if he still insisted on treating her coldly. She would happily return the favour. But she would not tolerate any behaviour from anyone that made Roisin feel in the least bit unwanted or unloved. And of all her close family, her father was the one she feared was most likely to do exactly that.
As far as she was concerned, her trepidation was based on sound supposition. He had treated her coldly before she left for France, and he had not once troubled himself to write to her or make the journey to France to see her and his granddaughter in the entire five years she had been away.
He had always been a stern, unemotional father, not given to displays of affection towards his children. He had never been cruel, but he inspired more respect than love.
Agnes had come to realize over her years in France that he had perceived her pregnancy as an attack. It had made him feel he had failed to manage his daughter, and the disgrace she had brought upon him by doing so had been too much to forgive. She suspected that was still very much the case.
Such were the thoughts that were occupying her mind as the carriage rolled ever closer to the castle. She was suddenly shocked out of them by the sound of shouts coming from outside the vehicle, which suddenly drew to a shuddering halt. So abrupt was the stop, that Saoirse instantly awoke. Fortunately, cushioned on Agnes’ lap, Roisin slept on.
“Are we there, me lady,” Saoirse asked in a voice blurred by sleep, rubbing her eyes and yawning.
“Nay, we’ve stopped on the road. Listen, there’s some sort of ruckus goin’ on outside,” Agnes told her hurriedly, her anxiety rising. They listened as the shouts of several men grew louder, more insistent, coming from immediately outside the vehicle. Needing to know what was going on and if it posed a threat to Roisin, Agnes sat up carefully to avoid disturbing the child, leaned over to the window, and raised the blind a little.
Peering out, trying to see what the cause of the commotion could be, she heard running feet but glimpsed only fast-moving shadows in the gathering darkness.
“Ach, ’tis too dark tae see anythin’ properly,” she told Saoirse in frustration, leaning back from the window. Yet still the shouts persisted, hard, sharp, unintelligible bursts of sound that gave Agnes the unsettling feeling of being encircled by a pack of dogs
The two women locked eyes, and Agnes could clearly see her own fear reflected back at her in Saoirse’s.
“I dinnae like this one bit, me lady,” the maid murmured, glancing worriedly at Roisin.
Agnes called up the driver. “Coachman, what is happening? Why have we stopped? Have we broken down?”
It was slightly reassuring to hear the driver’s voice come back strongly, “Nay, me lady, but—” His reply was suddenly cut off by a blood-curdling scream, followed by a loud thud.
Agnes and Saoirse froze, staring at each other in undisguised alarm. “Me lady, I think we’re bein’ attacked by brigands,” her maid hissed.
“Oh, Lord preserve us, Saoirse, I think ye’re right,” Agnes answered in a panicked whisper, starting to shake. Roisin, startled awake by the scream and confused and frightened by the shouting from outside, started to cry.
She clung to Agnes wide-eyed, her little face white with fear. “Mama, what was the man screamin’ fer? Is he hurt?” she stammered, hardly able to speak.
Despite her rising panic, Agnes stroked Roisin’s head and tried to reassure her. “Nay, darlin’, he’s all right. But there’s some bad men outside, and ye need tae hide,” she said, hearing the tremor in her own voice. She opened her cloak. “Come here, under me cloak. Now, ye must be a brave lass and dinnae make a peep or move until I tell ye ’tis safe, all right?”
Roisin nodded, tears streaming down her face as she scooted beneath the cloak and huddled against her mother, hidden from sight once Agnes folded it over her, thanking the heavens above that Roisin was a smaller child than other’s her age.
“What shall we dae? We have naethin’ tae defend oursel’s with,” Agnes whispered to Saoirse. “What are ye daein’?” she asked, seeing Saoirse frantically rummaging in her old tapestry bag, the same one she had brought with them when they had left five years before. It was stuffed with hers and Roisin’s things as well as a host of other useful items.
“Aye, we dae, we have these,” Saoirse whispered back, handing Agnes a dirk. She had another for herself, it appeared. She unsheathed the blade, while Agnes only stared at hers.
“But I’ve never used…” She hesitated to say knife in case it frightened Roisin further. So instead, she said, “… one of these before. I dinnae what tae dae with it.”
“Well, I’m nay expert either, but there cannae be much tae it,” Saoirse said, brandishing the blade in front of her. “I’ll take that door, and ye take the other, and if anyone tries tae get in, do this.” She demonstrated with a series of quick, darting thrusts at an imaginary enemy before shifting over to station herself at the door where Agnes had tried to look outside. “Ye need tae take it out of its sheath first,” she added emphatically, noticing Agnes had not moved and was simply staring at the dirk in her hand.
“Aye, right,” Agnes said numbly, pulling the knife out with shaking fingers and gripping the hilt. The blade was about ten inches long and looked frighteningly sharp. But any qualms she might have had about using it on another person or dying in the attempt were overtaken by her motherly instinct to protect Roisin at all costs.
“Aim fer the chest,” Saoirse instructed, holding her tall body stiffly between them and the door, the knife in her outstretched hand pointed at it.
Agnes shifted slightly, making sure Roisin was positioned between them beneath her cloak, so she would be protected if they were boarded. The little mite clutched her mother’s waist, her small body trembling, but she made not a peep.
“It’ll be all right, darlin’,” Agnes whispered, her arm around Roisin outside the cloak, trying to reassure the little girl as best she could. Then, the very thing she and Saoirse had been dreading actually occurred, for the carriage door on her side was suddenly wrenched open. Her heart leaped into her throat as she pointed the knife at the man who appeared in the doorway.
He was scruffily dressed, and he was wielding a dirk. When he saw the two women, his dark eyes gleamed, and his unshaven face split into a wolfish grin. “Well, well, well, looks like ’tis our lucky day. Good evenin’ tae ye, ladies,” he said in a rough voice, leering at them. Agnes felt a wave of fear and revulsion wash over her as his eyes swept over her body. She knew very well what happened to women caught by brigands on the road before they were murdered.
“What a fine lookin’ pair ye are. Ye willnae mind if I come and join ye, will ye?” the brigand said, putting his foot on the step and heaving himself up, clearly about to get in. Agnes was shaking so much, she could hardly grip the dirk. She heard Saoirse moving behind her but could not see what she was doing.
“Och, two feisty ones, eh? That’s what I like. A bit of spirit,” the brigand said, obviously enjoying their terror.
“Dinnae even try tae come in here, ye robbin’ bastard,” Saoirse swore fiercely at the man, lunging forward protectively in front of Agnes and stabbing at him with the dirk. “Run, me lady, run!” she cried, doing her best to keep the brigand at bay.
“Ach, ye harridan, drop yer blade, or I’ll cut yer throat!” the man yelled in pain as Saoirse’s knife slashed at his hands and wrists. In a panic, afraid for the maid’s life, Agnes dithered for a moment, hesitating to leave her. But when Saoirse shouted again, “Run! Get away!” she realized Roisin’s safety had to come first.
Still clutching the dagger and holding tightly to the little body hidden beneath her cloak with one arm, she rushed to the opposite door, unlatched it with shaking fingers, and clambered awkwardly as fast as she could out onto the road. As soon as her feet hit the ground, she took off running into the trees, bent on finding a hiding place in the darkness. A shrill scream of pain from behind halted her, and when she turned to look over her shoulder, she was horrified to see Saoirse grappling with the brigand inside the carriage.
The man had hold of Saoirse’s wrist and was twisting it cruelly, making her scream in pain and forcing her to drop the dirk before shoving her violently backwards.
“Saoirse!” Agnes screamed as the maid impacted the side of the door with a thud, fearing she was badly hurt. But Saoirse confounded her and the brigand by recovering almost immediately. Agnes watched as she hurled herself bodily through the door, hitting the ground in a crouch before pinpointing Agnes in the tree line. “Run, find a place tae hide!” the maid shouted frantically, racing towards her.
But just as Agnes turned to start running again, from the corner of her eye, she saw the brigand leap from the carriage and sprint after them, brandishing his dirk. “Ye may as well give up runnin’, ye ken I’ll catch up tae ye, and it’ll be the worse fer ye when I dae!” he yelled threateningly. Her heart hammering with terror, with Saoirse hot on her heels, Agnes fled. She pushed herself to run faster, clinging to the desperate hope they would be able to outpace him and lose themselves in the forest. Yet she knew her hope of escape was in vain.
Trying to negotiate the uneven forest floor in the dark at speed was proving too hazardous. She sobbed with fear and frustration as she ran, desperately keeping Roisin clasped to her hip with one arm, while tree roots and debris threatened to trip her up with every step. Her skirts snagged on the undergrowth and tore, and she narrowly dodged colliding with tree trunks that loomed out of nowhere. It was as though the forest itself was conspiring to slow her down.
Agnes’ terror mounted to hear the brigand crashing after them through the trees, cursing them both roundly as he gained on her and Saoirse. The situation seemed hopeless, but she was determined to keep Roisin safe, no matter if it cost her her life. Even as she ran on blindly, she tried to marshal her thoughts, to come up with some sort of plan to save her daughter.
I still have the dirk, she thought, clutching the handle of the blade tightly in her free hand. I need tae find somewhere tae hide Roisin, then make a stand. I’m gonnae have tae fight him off somehow and pray that help comes in time!
She heard Saoirse let out a scream and then the brigand’s ragged breathing coming ever closer. “Get away from me, ye bastard!” Agnes shouted at him over her shoulder, her maternal instincts roused to fever pitch. “Or I’ll kill ye!”
“Ye can try, ye wee vixen, but ye’ll nae succeed!” he shouted, hurling himself after her with renewed energy. Despite Agnes best efforts, it was only a matter of seconds before he came up behind her. She felt a large hand suddenly grip her wrist and, with savage force, twist it. She shrieked in agony, and the dirk fell unseen from her hand.
She could feel Roisin beneath her cloak, hanging on for dear life, her little body trembling violently. All Agnes’ instincts told her to disentangle herself from Roisin’s grasp and tell the child to run and hide, but there was no time. In a flash, she found herself pinned against a large tree trunk, with the brigand looming over her menacingly, filling her purview. Certain she was about to meet her maker, terrified for her daughter, in a last-ditch appeal for help, Agnes let out a loud, desperate scream.
What happened next was a confusing blur. One moment the brigand was there, snarling in her face with fury. The next, she heard his skull crack as something hit him over the head. He watched uncomprehendingly as his eyes rolled back in his head, and he dropped like a stone to the ground at her feet.
Agnes stared in stupefaction as his place was immediately filled by another man. But this one was far bigger, taller, more powerfully built, his shoulders broad enough to block her view. Unsure if this was a new threat or someone come to save them, she dared not let down her guard. With her heart still pounding in her ears, Agnes tightened her hold on Roisin as the newcomer sheathed his sword then reached down and dragged the clearly deceased brigand up by the scruff of his neck and tossed him aside as if he weighed nothing.
Then, he dusted off his hands and looked down at her, sheathing his sword with practiced ease. “He’ll nae be troublin’ ye anymore, Miss. Are ye all right?” he asked, his deep, husky voice filled with concern.
The reassuring words should have calmed Agnes, who was shaking from head to foot, having believed only moments before that she was about to die. Instead, the sound of his voice sent a powerful tremor of recognition through her body that set her heart racing afresh. Nay, it cannae be him. ’Tis the shock. I’m hearin’ things, she told herself, her mind reeling.
“Miss, ’tis all right,” the man told her softly, clearly worried by her silence. “I promise, ye’re safe now. Did that bastard hurt ye?”
Agnes did not answer but put a hand to her head, still convinced she was experiencing some sort of delusion. I must have banged it without realizin’ it, she thought, staring up uncomprehendingly at the man’s shadowy features. ’Tis the only explanation fer it.
“Me lady! Are ye all right? Where’s the wee yin?” Saoirse! She’s unharmed, thank God! Agnes thought with relief as the maid hurried towards them. Unable to speak, she could only nod mutely. Pulling aside her cloak, she revealed a shivering, tearful Roisin tightly clasped to her side.
Saoirse clasped her hands to her cheeks and smiled. “Och, thank the Lord above!” Then, as if remembering something, she glanced up at their rescuer and added, “I mean tae say, thank the Lord fer sendin’ ye tae save us, Sir.”
“Think naethin’ of it. I’m only glad I arrived in time,” he replied. “Now, let’s get out of here and back tae the coach. There may be more of those brigands lurkin’ about here. ’Tis nae safe fer ye tae stay.”
As they followed him back through the trees to the road, Agnes became aware of the sounds of fighting growing louder as they approached. When she saw the carriage and the coachman slumped insensibly in his seat, both she and Saoirse gasped in shock.
“Is he…?” Saoirse asked, looking up at the man.
“Nay, just unconscious. He’s taken a nasty knock tae the head though,” their rescuer replied. However, Agnes attention had been snared by the sight of two men engaged in a fierce sword fight a short distance away. Reflexively, she covered Roisin’s eyes, not wanting the child to witness any bloodshed.
Suddenly one of the men broke away and ran off down the road, with the other charging after him in hot pursuit. “Braither!” Agnes cried out, instantly recognizing the pursuer as Duncan. And the man he was chasing was clearly another of the brigands. “Be careful!” she called after him fearfully, her heart in her mouth as she watched him slowly gaining on the brigand. Silently, she prayed he would triumph.
Then, as she knew it inevitably would, the familiar deep, husky voice came from her side, breaking into her distraction over her brother and setting her heart throbbing painfully.
“Agnes? Is it ye?”
She made herself turn and look at him, at his expression of utter shock, and her insides turned to water. Five years had scarred and hardened his sculpted features somewhat. His blond hair was longer, curling around his ears. There were a few more lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. But to her dismay, time only seemed to have increased his allure.
He was a fearsome warrior, marked by battle, frightening to look upon. Yet he was without a doubt the most beautiful, desirable man she had ever seen. The sight of him was like a knife twisting in her heart, for she loved him with all her heart but could never let him know it.
His presence threw her into fresh turmoil. Why is he here? Maither said he’d be away fightin’ with Duncan. Ach, this is a disaster! How the hell am I gonnae keep the truth from him now?
“Aye, Conrad,” she eventually replied, trying to keep her voice steady as a storm of emotions coursed through her. “’Tis me.”
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…
Davina squeezed Edin’s hands, her grip firm and warm. “Ye ready, lass?”
Edin took in a slow breath, willing herself to nod, but fear and hesitation curled in her chest like a serpent.
There was no turning back now. The hall was filled, the torches casting a golden glow against the stone walls, the scent of fresh heather mingling with the faint aroma of burning wax. The murmur of guests settled into an expectant hush. This was it.
“Ye’ll dae just fine,” Davina assured her, her tone gentle yet insistent. “Now go on, before he thinks ye’ve changed yer mind.”
Edin huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I think I’d like tae see him sweat a bit longer.”
Davina chuckled, but then she stepped back, her presence slipping away like a final tether to hesitation. And then Edin was alone. Not truly literally. Not with the scrutiny of every eye upon her, nor with the shadow of her own doubts still lingering.
She took a single step forward. Then another.
The aisle stretched ahead of her, feeling impossibly long. Each step sounded too loud, echoing in her ears. It felt so far.
She had never imagined herself there — not like that. Love was not something she had been raised to expect, nor marriage something she had thought she would ever have. A life within the Triad had always meant solitude, independence.
Yet now, here she was, walking towards a man who had shattered all of that, who had forced her to see beyond the walls she had built.
A man who had fought for her.
Her gaze flickered over the sea of faces; some familiar, some not. And she could not help but think of Finley’s family. How they had resisted at first, how they had questioned and doubted. But he had stood before them, unwavering, unyielding, as he always was. And in the end, they had accepted it. Perhaps not with open arms, but they had understood.
Still, she wondered. Would she always be the outsider? Would she belong? The whispers of doubt clawed at her, but then—
She saw him.
Finley stood at the altar, waiting. And when her eyes met his, the world stilled. He was smiling, that lopsided grin that always made her heart do foolish things. It was not just a smile — it was a promise, a vow even before the words were spoken. He was looking at her as though she was the only thing in the world that mattered, as though she had never given him a reason to doubt, never made him wait, never questioned her own worth.
A warmth unfurled in her chest, spreading like the first touch of dawn. The hesitation faded, replaced by something steadier, something stronger. Aye, she had been afraid. But there was no fear now. There was only him.
The rest of the walk passed in an instant. One moment she was afraid she’d never reach him; the next, she was standing before him, his hands taking hers, warm and sure. And she knew, without a doubt, that there was nowhere else she would rather be.
The vows came next, yet the words held a significance far greater than them.
“I vow tae stand by ye, tae fight fer ye, tae love ye as long as breath remains in me,” Finley said, his voice rough with emotion. “From this day forth, I am yers, Edin. Always.”
Her throat tightened. There was no script, no perfect words she had prepared. Only this, only the truth in her heart. “I never thought I’d find a place where I belonged, but ye’ve given me that. Ye’ve given me a home, Finley. And I vow tae stand by ye, tae love ye, and tae choose ye every day fer as long as I live.”
A hush settled over the hall that spoke of something sacred, unbreakable.
And then, before the priest could even finish declaring them wed, Finley’s hands cradled her face, and he kissed her.
The world erupted into cheers. A roar of approval, of laughter, of celebration. The kiss was soft at first, reverent, but then he pulled her closer, deepening it just enough to remind her of the passion that had always burned between them.
When they parted, his forehead rested against hers for a lingering moment, his breath warm against her skin.
“Ye’re mine now, wife,” he murmured, his voice full of wonder and something deeper. “Truly mine.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “And ye’re mine, husband.”
They barely had time to process the words before they were surrounded. Hands clapped Finley’s back, arms wrapped around Edin in embraces both warm and overwhelming. Laughter rang through the hall as congratulations poured over them like a rushing tide.
“A fine match, lad!” someone called.
“A beautiful bride!”
“Ye best be treating her well, Finley, or ye’ll have us all tae answer tae!”
Finley only laughed, his arm steady around her waist, anchoring her to him. She let herself lean into him, the warmth of his presence chasing away the last lingering shadows of doubt.
For the first time in her life, Edin was not alone.
She had a family now. She had a home.
And she had him.
***
“I’ve somethin’ fer ye,” Finley said, turning to face her.
The room was quiet save for the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth. The celebration carried on downstairs, music and laughter echoing faintly through the stone walls, but here, in the chambers they would now share as husband and wife, the world had shrunk to just the two of them.
Edin stood by the bed, still breathless from the whirlwind of the day. The vows, the kiss, the way Finley had looked at her as though she was the only woman in the world. Her heart had been full; fuller than she ever thought it could be.
Edin quirked a brow. “A surprise?” She smirked, crossing her arms.
She wondered what awaited her beyond this moment. Surely, there were no more surprises left — Finley had already given her more than she could have ever asked for. And yet, something about the way he moved, the quiet sense of purpose in his steps, made her think otherwise. Perhaps marriage had already begun to shift things between them, deepening their bond in ways she had yet to understand. The thought sent warmth blooming across her cheeks, and she bit her lip to suppress a smile.
Her gaze followed Finley as he strode toward a small chest by the bedside. He knelt, lifting the lid, his fingers rummaging through its contents with careful deliberation. Edin’s curiosity sharpened as she watched him, her head tilting slightly.
At last, he found what he was looking for. Straightening, he turned to face her, a brown leather folder in his grasp. There was something almost solemn about the way he held it, as if it carried a great weight. Instead of speaking right away, he took a slow step forward and extended it toward her, his gaze steady and unreadable.
Edin let out a scoff, eyeing the folder with suspicion. “If this is some sort o’ contract or more dull paperwork, husband, I just might start wonderin’ if I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Finley chuckled, shaking his head. “I promise it’s nae dull. Open it.”
Her fingers hesitated over the worn leather before she took it from him, eyeing it warily. “This is the first gift ye give me as yer wife, and it’s — documents?”
“Just open it, lass.” His voice was softer now, a thread of something deeper woven into it.
The moment she unfolded the first parchment, her chest tightened. Her name was written in elegant script, but beneath it—
MacAlister.
Her chest constricted. She blinked, staring at the name as though it might change if she looked at it long enough. Her hands tightened around the papers as she flipped through them, scanning the words that seemed to blur together. A record of birth. A letter of transfer. A signature, not her own.
“What…” The word barely left her lips. She swallowed hard, her throat dry as sand. “Where—where did ye get this?”
Finley stepped closer, his hand hovering at her arm but not touching, as though sensing she needed space. “From the Triad. It came straight from them.”
She inhaled sharply. “So they kent?” Her voice wavered, disbelief laced with quiet hurt. “They kent all this time an’ said naething?”
He nodded, his expression carefully measured. “Aye. They kent.”
Edin let out a breath that felt like a slow collapse. She looked back at the papers, her mind spinning. The MacAlisters, a noble family. The family who had given her away.
Her heart pounded against her ribs. She had never allowed herself to dwell on it before — on the absence of a past, on the unanswered questions she had locked away. She had been raised by the Triad, had fought for her place, had earned the respect that was not freely given. And yet, here, in her hands, was the proof that she had once belonged somewhere else. That she had been cast aside, handed off like a transaction.
She barely noticed Finley moving until his hands settled gently on her shoulders. “Lass,” he said softly, “ye need tae breathe.”
She exhaled, shuddering slightly as she let the papers drop onto the bed. Her fingers curled at her sides. “Why?” she asked, her voice quieter now, almost lost in the space between them. “Why would they give me up?”
Finley let a beat pass before answering. “It was common practice, Edin. Nobles often sent their daughters tae be raised by the Triad — tae be trained, protected. Ye kent this is what happened tae me grandmaither.”
She turned her gaze to him sharply. “I kent… yes.”
He nodded. “Aye. She was given up young, just like ye. But it was nae because she was unwanted. It was because the Triad could offer somethin’ her family couldnae. Strength. Safety.”
Edin swallowed hard, her emotions a tangled knot in her chest. “And yet, they never came fer me.”
The truth sat heavy between them. Finley didn’t argue, didn’t offer hollow reassurances. Instead, he took her hands in his, calloused and warm against her skin. “I cannae tell ye what was in their hearts when they made that choice, but I can tell ye this: who ye are, everythin’ ye’ve become, ye did that. Ye survived, thrived. An’ whatever ye choose tae dae with this—” he gestured at the folder, “—we dae it taegether.”
Her breath caught at that, at the simple certainty in his voice. She looked at him then, truly looked, and saw not just her husband, but her partner. Her family.
She let out a breath that felt like letting go, if only a little. And then, in a voice that was steadier now, she said, “I dinnae ken if I want tae kent them.”
Finley squeezed her hands gently. “Ye dinnae have tae. Ye have me.”
A slow warmth unfurled in her chest. She had spent so long wondering where she belonged, searching for something unseen. But as Finley pulled her close, his arms solid and sure around her, she realized she had found it.
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 wind whipped against Edin’s face as she approached Castle Lennox, the craggy walls looming in the distance like the silent sentinels of some forgotten battle. She felt the burden of the assignment on her shoulders, though she was more than accustomed to the idea of a job to be done. Her pulse quickened as the castle grew larger, and the thought of sharing the mission with Finley — a rich, spoiled man — settling like a bitter taste on her tongue.
With her gaze fixed on the looming stone of Castle Lennox, she scaled the wall with practiced ease, her fingers finding purchase on the jagged edges of the stones. The wind howled, tugging at her cloak, but Edin was used to the wildness.
She reached a large tree growing beside the wall and, after a swift and quiet climb, perched herself upon one of its sturdy branches. The castle entrance was below her, and from her vantage point, she could see the men and women moving about, preparing for whatever the day might bring.
Exhaustion from the journey caught up with her, and despite her best efforts, her eyelids grew heavy. She let herself drift for a time, letting the cool breeze and the muffled sounds of the castle below soothe her, if only for a moment.
It was the faint sound of boots crunching on gravel that jerked her awake.
Edin blinked rapidly, shaking off the remnants of sleep as she focused on the figure below. He was leaving. She was certain of it before the shape even fully registered, though the certainty turned to clarity as Finley appeared from behind the castle gates. She watched him as he said his goodbyes to the older woman — a thin woman with graying hair, her voice low and warm despite the distance between them. A mother.
She felt a twist in her chest — an ache, a pang that she quickly shoved aside. To see someone else have that moment — the chance to say goodbye — was a reminder of what she had missed. It was something kept beneath the surface, something that only stirred in moments like this.
Finley’s broad shoulders moved with the easy grace of a man used to war, used to authority. His cloak fluttered behind him, the family crest pinned to the fabric with an almost childlike pride.
Idiot.
It was a mistake, a foolish one. Anyone who looked could identify him, could tie his name to his face with ease. And in this business, that was a mistake worth noting. She narrowed her eyes, taking in every detail. His was tall, broadly built, yet something about him felt out of place, as though he were too finely honed for the kind of brutality a war would demand.
The task was simple enough, but the fact that she had to share it with him gnawed at her. He didn’t seem incompetent, no. But there was something about him, something that made the air around him crackle with… charm. The kind of man who commanded attention without asking for it. And it didn’t help that she didn’t like being told how to do her work, especially by a man she hardly knew.
He turned and Edin’s breath caught in her throat, though she was careful not to move.
“Look at ye, all clean and ready fer war,” she muttered under her breath, her voice low and laced with more than a touch of sarcasm. “Ye look too pretty tae be walkin’ off into battle.”
The words were out before she could stop them, and her eyes narrowed as she studied him.
His rugged jawline, the sharpness of his features all contributed to a presence she wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with.
Finley’s gaze flickered down to his family crest. She knew he was thinking about it, likely trying to decide if he’d been foolish or simply bold. He was bold, there was no denying that, but also foolish.
Still, her gaze lingered on the crest for a moment longer before moving back up to his face.
He turned and nodded to his mother one last time before striding toward his horse.
A dark steed, strong and powerful, was tethered at the gate, its coat gleaming in the low afternoon sun. Finley mounted with practiced ease, one foot in the stirrup and then the other, settling into the saddle with a quiet confidence that somehow managed to draw Edin’s gaze once more.
She couldn’t help it. There was something about him that demanded attention, that made her mind whirl in an uncomfortable way.
She shook herself from the thought, leaping lightly from the tree and moving quickly to her own steed. She had no intention of allowing him to notice her — not yet, anyway. She kept her distance, riding silently behind him, careful to stay far enough so as not to draw his attention. The castle walls, now far behind them, were nothing more than a shadow in the distance, but Edin’s thoughts remained fixed on the man ahead.
Finley might have a mother’s farewell, but it was clear to her that he was a man out of his depth — like all men were. And it wouldn’t be long before he realized it.
***
The days bled together in a haze of silence and tension as Edin kept her distance, observing Finley from afar. She kept to the shadows, moving like a whisper across the land as she followed him, always careful to remain out of sight.
He didn’t notice her; not once — and that suited her just fine. Her only goal was to make sure the man didn’t get himself killed — or worse, get in her way.
At first, everything seemed ordinary. He traveled at a steady pace, always on the move but never hurried. There was nothing remarkable about his routine, just the usual trappings of a man who was traveling with purpose.
It was during the second day that she first noticed the two men.
They appeared at odd intervals, always seeming to materialize just after Finley had passed. She didn’t think much of them at first — perhaps just travelers, or maybe soldiers — but after a while, the feeling that he was being watched gnawed at the back of her mind.
The first man was tall, broad, with dark hair and a face that was as sharp as knives. The second man was smaller, with lighter features and a quicker step, but no less dangerous in the way he carried himself.
She had seen both of them at the inns Finley stayed at, always in the same place, always keeping their distance but never straying too far. And every time they looked at Finley, she caught the glint of suspicion in their eyes.
Whoever they were, aye, they were following him.
It was an unusual thing to notice — too blatant, too obvious — but there it was. She made a mental note to keep an eye on them. There were too many unanswered questions, and she didn’t like the feeling creeping along her spine, the sensation that something was off.
On the fourth day of following him, Finley walked into an inn just outside a small village.
Edin had been keeping her distance, as usual, watching from the shadows, but as the day stretched on, it became clear that he wasn’t coming out. Hours passed, the sun dipping lower in the sky, and still, there was no sign of him.
She bit her lip, wondering what he could be doing inside. She hadn’t seen him meet anyone, hadn’t noticed any other men lingering nearby. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
She didn’t care about his business inside that inn — it wasn’t her job to know — but she had to make sure nothing got in her way. If there was trouble, she wanted to be the first one to see it.
With a sigh, Edin made her way to the inn’s front door. She didn’t need a reason to be there; she’d been staying at inns along the route anyway, always keeping a low profile.
Stepping inside, she immediately regretted the decision. The warmth of the fire, the bustling of people in the common room — everything felt too alive, too exposed. She winced when she bumped into someone in the doorway, the force of the collision nearly knocking her off balance.
Her heart skipped a beat, but before she could lift her gaze, she lowered her head in the practiced gesture of an apology. She wasn’t looking for attention. She wanted to remain unnoticed.
“Sorry,” she muttered, her voice a mere whisper.
It was only when the stranger grunted in acknowledgment that she dared glance up, and there he was — Finley.
She froze for a heartbeat, her pulse quickening, but then she quickly stepped aside, trying her hardest not to meet his gaze. He didn’t seem to notice her and went outside about his way.
She was careful to keep her movements steady, calm, and casual as she approached the reception desk. The innkeeper — a stout, middle-aged man with a thick beard — looked up at her, his face creased with both suspicion and politeness.
“I’ll be needing a room,” Edin said, her voice steady as she met his gaze.
The innkeeper fumbled for a moment, reaching for the ledger in front of him. “Aye, we’ve a few rooms open.”
It was there that she noticed three keys were missing. These were rooms that had been taken for the night. Edin made a mental note of the missing rooms, her eyes darting over the list of available keys.
She thanked the innkeeper, paid for a room, and then made her way down the hallway.
Room 5, she noted first. It was locked, as expected. She couldn’t hear anything inside. Moving on, she checked Room 9, but when she put her ear to the door, she heard the unmistakable sound of hushed voices, followed by the scrape of a chair.
Not Room 9, then.
She didn’t wait around to confirm. Instead, she moved swiftly, but quietly, to the next door, Room 12. She had a feeling. Something in her gut told her that this room might be Finley’s. She stood in front of it for a moment, listening, but when no sounds came from inside, she acted quickly.
With practiced ease, she picked the lock. It was simple enough — a basic mechanism she had mastered over the years — and within moments she was inside, her footsteps light on the creaky floorboards.
She stayed in the shadows, blending with the room’s quiet emptiness. She could wait for hours if need be. But she was ready to confront Finley now.
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…
Don’t miss your link for the whole book at the end of the preview.
Chapter 1
1714, Crypt of the Triad
“Edin, ye’ve been chosen fer a mission o’ great import.” The deep, commanding voice of one of the figures broke the silence, reverberating through the ancient crypt. It was a voice meant to be obeyed, each word weighted with authority.
The flickering torches lining the walls painted erratic shadows over the ancient carvings, their forms seeming to twist and writhe as if alive. Edin had stood in this room more times than she cared to count, but its oppressive atmosphere never lost its edge.
It was as though the air carried the scrutiny of countless unseen eyes. The damp chill clung to her skin, seeping into her bones as she faced the three cloaked figures known as The Favored. Their faces were obscured by hoods, the darkness within like a void.
The chamber itself felt as though it were closing in, its ancient stone walls bearing down on her. Even the faint echo of the figure’s voice heightened her sense of isolation. Yet Edin stood straight and unyielding, her outward composure betraying none of the turmoil within. Her mind, however, was a maelstrom. Whenever she was summoned to this crypt, she was tasked with work that danced the fine line between death and glory.
Weakness, she knew, was a luxury she could not afford. To falter, even for a moment, could mean losing everything she had spent her life fighting to achieve. She had to appear fearless, unshakeable as she steeled herself against the unrelenting weight of their gaze.
“A request has come from the Lennox family,” the cloaked figure continued, her voice measured as her fingers tapped the armrest of the high-backed chair.
Edin’s sharp gray eyes narrowed imperceptibly. The Lennox name always brought complications to its cases, reserved only for the most skilled members of The Triad.
“If I may ask,” she said, her voice calm and unwavering despite the flicker of unease she felt, “wasnae Elsie charged wi’ matters concerning the Lennox family?”
The figure on the right answered, her voice cutting through the crypt’s chill. “Yes. But Elsie has chosen a different path; she married and, in doing so, relinquished her place within The Triad.”
Marriage? Edin struggled to keep the incredulity from her expression. To throw away the opportunity to rise, to command respect, all for the fleeting comforts of matrimony? It would be a betrayal of self and purpose.
The mere thought of a quiet life, confined to the walls of a home, suffocated her. The monotony of tending to household affairs, of playing the dutiful wife—no matter how comfortable or privileged—would bore her to madness.
The Triad stood for something greater than human desires, it fought for justice and understanding in a world that thrived on shadows and deceit.
Edin couldn’t imagine looking back on her life and seeing it reduced to the mundane when she could achieve something greater. For as long as she could remember, Edin had envisioned herself as an integral part of the Triad. It was a calling. To belong to an organization so devoted to uncovering truths, solving the unsolvable, and protecting the integrity of their world was a mission.
Edin wasn’t built for tea parties or embroidery circles. She had always craved the thrill of a challenge and the rush of deciphering clues and solving cases. And this wasn’t just about ambition. It was about legacy. It was about knowing she had spent her life doing something that mattered.
The central figure leaned forward, her dark blue eyes catching the torchlight as they locked onto Edin’s. “The Lennoxes have requested our assistance in a matter of utmost delicacy. Their daughter, Davina, vanished some months ago. Evidence has surfaced suggesting she may yet live, hidden somewhere in the Highlands. Ye’ll be accompanying Finley Lennox, their eldest son — the heir,” the cloaked leader stated, her voice then dropping, low and deliberate. “The Lennoxes are nae ordinary patrons, Edin. Their influence is vast, their wealth critical tae our survival. Failure isnae an option.”
Another harsher voice came from the shadows. “Their loyalty is conditional. They demand excellence, and they’ll accept naethin’ less than success.”
Edin’s shoulders straightened instinctively, her mind already turning over the implications of the mission. Every word spoken was a reminder of the stakes. To succeed would be to solidify her position — a promotion, respect and the belonging she had been seeking for as long as she could remember.
To fail… well, she refused to consider failure. It was not an option. There was nowhere else to go and nothing else to do for her.
“This mission,” the leader intoned, “is as much a test o’ loyalty as it is a measure of skill. Prove yerself worthy, and the path ahead will open.”
“I am grateful fer the opportunity.” Edin’s hands clenched beneath her cloak, the motion hidden but no less resolute.
This is me chance.
For too long, she had been a simple tool to The Triad — even though experienced and a skilled herbologist. But this mission could change that. If she succeeded, she would no longer be merely useful; she would become an indispensable asset in an organization that many feared and most turned to for help.
One of the figures shifted. “Yer task will require access to the knowledge center. Ye’ve earned that privilege. See that ye make good use o’ it.”
Edin’s breath hitched for a moment, but she quickly masked it. The knowledge center was sacred ground, a repository of secrets and strategies. Few were granted entry, and fewer still could claim they had earned it. That they trusted her with such access was a testament to the gravity of the mission.
“I understand,” she replied, her tone steady and deliberate. “I’ll nae fail ye. The mission will be completed.”
As the meeting concluded, Edin turned and began her ascent from the crypt, her footsteps echoing in the silence. Her mind stirred with the details of the mission, the gravity of the task, and the rare opportunity she had been given — one she had been dreaming of since her youth. Now, at twenty-five, The Favored had bestowed upon her a responsibility of immense weight — and with it, a chance to prove she was more than just a servant of their will, but someone who truly belonged.
As she emerged into the cold, open air, she drew a deep breath. The weight of expectation still pressed down on her, but it was a weight she welcomed. For the first time in a long while, the path before her was clear. She would succeed—not just for the Lennox family, not for The Triad, but for herself.
For Edin, this mission was the ladder she had been waiting to climb. She’d worked too hard, given too much of herself, and sacrificed more than most. This mission, with all its complexities and dangers, was her chance to prove that she was not just worthy of a higher rank but essential to the organization’s very core. Otherwise, she would fade into oblivion.
***
The dim light of her quarters cast long, comforting shadows on the walls as Edin methodically sorted through her collection of vials. Each glass container held a carefully crafted mixture, labeled with her meticulous handwriting. The faint scent of crushed herbs and bitter compounds lingered in the air. Her hands moved with the efficiency of years spent perfecting her craft, ensuring every stopper was sealed tight, every label secured.
She reached for a vial containing a pale green liquid, her fingers brushing the smooth surface. “Antidote for nightshade poisoning,” she murmured under her breath, placing it gently in the satchel laid open on her cot. Next came a small bottle of silvery powder — a potent sedative that had proven invaluable in the past. She packed it alongside a collection of dried herbs wrapped in wax paper, her thoughts wandering as she worked.
She thought over what she had just experienced. Edin was well aware of the Lennox family’s deep ties to the Triad. What unsettled her was how much influence a single family could wield over an organization of such power. It felt wrong, a contradiction of everything the Triad was supposed to represent. Wealth and privilege shouldn’t dictate priorities, no matter how generous donations might be. Of course, her opinion didn’t matter, but when measured against the broader needs of society, catering to a wealthy family seemed like the least worthy of causes.
This made the mission feel different — heavier. The thought of accompanying Finley Lennox unsettled her. A future laird, accustomed to command, the kind of man who would see her as a tool. Her independence was one of her greatest strengths, and yet there she was, about to be saddled with a partner who could jeopardize her effectiveness. But there was no way around it.
Her fingers tightened briefly around the vial before she tucked it into her bag. She couldn’t let her irritation cloud her judgment. The mission didn’t leave much space for personal preferences — it was simply about results.
She reached for her small notebook, its pages filled with sketches of plants and their properties, formulas for tinctures, and notes from previous assignments. Slipping it into an inner pocket, she drew a deep breath. The leather-bound book was one of the few things that she could truly call hers — she had written it page by page — and everything she knew was inside those pages.
As she resumed packing, the scene replayed in her mind. The Favored’s explanation of the mission echoed in her thoughts — Davina Lennox, stolen months ago. The thought struck a nerve and she couldn’t stop thinking about the irony of it all. It was cruelly fitting. She, a girl who had once been taken, was now tasked with finding another lost girl.
Her hand hovered, trembling slightly, over a bundle of dried wolfsbane, questions she had worked tirelessly to suppress threatening to break the surface. The family she’d been stolen from remained a void in her mind, faceless and unreachable. All she’d known since then was the calculated efficiency of the Triad, who had rescued her, shaped her, and made her indispensable. They had given her a purpose — one she had clung to because it was all she had.
She knew all too well what it was like to be lost, to belong to no one. Despite her opinion on Davina’s family, finding her wasn’t simply a task; it was a chance to prevent another from suffering the same fate she herself had endured her entire life.
“Focus,” she muttered, her voice sharp. She shook off the thought and secured the wolfsbane alongside the other vials. This wasn’t the time to dwell on the past. Her mission was clear: find Davina Lennox and bring her home.
She picked up her dagger, its blade gleaming faintly in the dim light. Slipping it into its sheath at her hip, she considered the challenge ahead. The Highlands were a treacherous place, and the task of navigating them with Finley Lennox was daunting. She would need to be at her sharpest, her most prepared.
Her thoughts turned briefly to Finley. She had seen him once before, from a distance, during one of the rare times she had been sent to deliver a message to the Lennox family. He had carried himself with an air of authority, his broad shoulders and commanding presence making him hard to ignore. He was a man used to control, and she suspected he would not take kindly to sharing it.
“He’ll need to learn,” she said under her breath. She wouldn’t tolerate unnecessary interference. Her satchel now packed, she fastened it tightly and slung it over her shoulder.
Edin stepped to the small mirror hanging on the wall. Her sharp gray eyes were distant and unreadable, even to her. The face staring back at her, framed by the black braid she had tied with precision earlier, bore no trace of fear, no flicker of doubt, but the stillness in her expression felt heavier today. She adjusted her cloak, the worn fabric rough against her fingers, pulling it tighter around her shoulders.
Her gaze flickered across the room; a bare cot, a battered wooden chest, and the single lantern casting its feeble glow on the cold stone walls. It was a sparse existence, one she had grown accustomed to, yet in its emptiness, it held a strange sense of security.
She lingered for a moment, letting the stillness settle in her chest, before drawing a deep, steadying breath. Stepping out meant leaving that comfort behind and walking into the unknown. But she had survived worse and she would survive this, too.
Her boots struck soft echoes on the stone floor as she moved through the labyrinthine corridors. The air was cool, carrying the faint, earthy scent of moss and damp stone that clung to the crypt-like depths of the Triad’s headquarters. She ran her fingers along the rough-hewn wall as she walked, grounding herself in its familiar texture.
By the time she arrived at the stables, the last light of the day was visible on the horizon, painting the sky in soft strokes of orange and pink. She paused for a moment, her gaze sweeping across the wide expanse before her, soaking in the quiet stillness of the morning.
Edin tightened the strap of her satchel and gave her horse a firm pat on its sleek neck. The creature’s breath clouded in the chill evening air. She swung into the saddle with practiced ease, the familiar creak of leather grounding her for what lay ahead.
The path ahead was narrow, hemmed in by towering pines whose branches seemed to stretch out like skeletal fingers, clawing at the low-hanging mist. Shadows danced and twisted in the dim light of the fading sun, creating an otherworldly atmosphere that matched her uneasy thoughts. Each hoofbeat struck the ground with a rhythmic finality, as if the earth itself marked her journey with solemn acknowledgment.
Her cloak whipped around her in the cool breeze. It was a small thing to focus on, but she welcomed the distraction. Anything to keep her from dwelling too long on the enormity of the mission she had just accepted. The Triad’s crypt and its weighty silence were now behind her, but the words of The Favored still echoed in her mind. She was sure she would succeed in her task, but it weighed on her. The Lennox family’s influence, the life of a missing girl, the approval of The Favored — it all coalesced into a single daunting weight. Yet she held her head high, her sharp eyes scanning the road ahead with a determination that brooked no weakness.
“This will change everything,” she murmured under her breath, her voice barely audible over the steady clatter of hooves. It was not the first time she’d told herself that, but tonight the words carried a sharper edge. For years, she had worked in the shadows, completing assignments with precision and efficiency, always hoping that each success would finally earn her the respect and belonging she craved. This mission, however, felt different, more personal.
The terrain grew rougher as the path climbed into the hills. Stones and roots jutted out from the earth, forcing her horse to pick its way carefully. She leaned forward slightly, one hand on the reins, the other resting instinctively near the satchel at her side, the vials clinking softly with each movement. Ahead, the mist thickened, obscuring the horizon and giving the world an eerie, dreamlike quality. The faint scent of damp earth and pine filled her senses, grounding her once more in the present. Whatever lay beyond the next rise, she would face it head-on.
Once I succeed, me position in the Triad will be secure forever.
Chapter 2
The bustling market of Kilmaroy greeted Finley Lennox with a cacophony of merchants shouting over one another to advertise their wares. The scent of freshly-baked bread, cured meats, and the occasional waft of manure reminded him that he was far from the genteel halls of Lennox Castle.
The journey had been grueling — three days of unrelenting travel — but arriving earlier than planned gave him a strange, bittersweet sense of relief. He had only a few days to gain the upper hand before whoever the Triad had chosen to assist him arrived. The organization worked on its own cryptic timetable, answering to no one but their own mysterious hierarchy.
The Triad. His parents spoke of them with reverence, his grandmother with a quiet, almost fearful respect. Yet Finley had always harbored skepticism. What kind of entity demanded such blind devotion without offering even a glimpse of their true nature? They were an enigma — puppeteers who thrived on secrets and mystery.
Still, he needed them.
Desperation had led him to this moment, a feeling so consuming that it eclipsed his doubts and pride. Davina’s face, haunting and fragile, was still etched in his mind like a brand. He refused to let it grow blurry in his memory, despite all the time that had passed.
His failure to protect his sister weighed heavier than the chainmail beneath his cloak. He couldn’t help but think it was his fault, that if he had been more careful, things could have taken a different turn. But he was trying to fix it and he would, no matter the cost.
Despite his dislike for the Triad, it offered a sliver of hope, and he would grasp it. He had no other option. And if it could help him find Davina, then he would tolerate their veiled motives and cryptic methods — even with the shadow of distrust cloaking his thoughts.
He squared his jaw, brushing the thought aside. He didn’t have the luxury of doubting them at this point. Davina’s fate hung in the balance, and he had to trust them, otherwise he would fail again.
Pulling his horse to a halt near the market’s edge, he dismounted and tethered it to a post outside a small butcher’s shop. The mare nickered softly, and he patted her flank. “Rest easy, lass. We’ll nae be moving much until the morrow.”
Finley scanned the marketplace. Women bartered for vegetables, men haggled over tools, and children darted through the crowd clutching penny sweets. Amid the commotion, he spotted an older woman wrapping her shawl tighter against the chill breeze. Stepping forward, he addressed her politely.
“Good day, madam. Might ye tell me where I’d find the Three-Legged Mare?”
The woman squinted up at him, her weathered face softening slightly. “Down the lane, past the cobbler’s shop. Ye cannae miss it. Sign’s got a horse with three legs, poor thing.” She chuckled, revealing missing teeth.
Finley inclined his head. “Thank ye kindly.”
He followed her directions and soon found himself standing before the inn. The faded sign swinging overhead bore the promised image of a three-legged horse, its paint chipped and peeling. The building itself was sturdy but worn, its stone façade darkened by years of rain and smoke. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, he stepped inside.
The air was thick with the scent of spilled ale and the acrid tang of pipe smoke. A group of merchants, already deep into their cups, sat at a corner table, shouting over a game of cards. Finley avoided their rowdy gaze and made his way to the counter where the innkeeper, a stout man with a balding head, polished a mug with a threadbare cloth.
“Room fer the night?” Finley asked, keeping his voice low.
The innkeeper nodded. “Aye. Three silvers.”
Finley handed over the coins without hesitation.
“Room at the top of the stairs, second door on the right,” the man grunted, sliding a key across the counter.
Pocketing the key, Finley climbed the narrow staircase to his rented room, the creak of the old wooden steps showing the inn’s age. The air carried the faint scent of ale and roasting meat from the kitchen below, mingling with the musk of damp timber. Reaching the top, he pushed open the door to his room and stepped inside, his boots muffled by the worn rug that covered part of the uneven floor.
It was modest but would do — a sturdy bed with a coarse woolen blanket, a small table near the window, and a single chair that looked like it might splinter under his weight. A narrow shelf along one wall held an oil lamp and an empty bowl, the latter likely meant for washing. The window, though small, offered a decent view of the bustling market below, the sun casting light over the vibrant fabrics of the stalls.
Finley set his satchel on the table, tugging it open to check its contents. Inside were his essentials: a flint for starting fires, a spare shirt, a leather pouch of coins, and a roll of thin rope. His dagger lay at his hip, a comforting weight that he wasn’t keen to part with, no matter the circumstances. He briefly considered unpacking, but dismissed the thought. This wasn’t a place to linger—it was a waypoint, nothing more.
Leaning against the window frame, he scanned the market below. Vendors were shouting their wares, the hum of bartering rising above the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. Somewhere down there was everything he needed to sustain them on the road.
Shaking off his fatigue, he grabbed the pouch of coins, tucked it into his belt, and headed back downstairs. The innkeeper gave him a nod as he passed, though Finley barely acknowledged the gesture.
He wove through the crowd with purpose, scanning the stalls. First, he stopped at a vendor selling dried meats, selecting enough to last a week’s journey. The strips were salted and tough, but they’d keep. Next, he added a small pouch of hardtack, the dense biscuits a staple for anyone traveling light.
At another stall, he found a flask of whisky. The vendor, an older man with a crooked grin, assured him it was “the best in Kilmaroy.” Finley doubted the claim but handed over the coins anyway. A swig of whisky might do more for morale than anything else on the road.
As he passed a blacksmith’s forge, the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal caught his ear. He paused, eyeing the array of blades on display. One dagger, with an elegantly carved hilt and a keen edge, caught his attention. For a moment, he considered it, running a hand over the worn leather grip of his own blade. But sentiment won out; his current dagger had seen him through countless trials. He gave the smith a nod and moved on.
With his purchases bundled in his satchel, Finley made one last sweep of the market before turning back toward the inn. The evening was growing colder, a sharp breeze cutting through the streets. As he climbed the steps to his room, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was forgetting something.
By the time he returned to the inn, night had fallen, and the merchants’ drunken laughter had grown louder. Finley ascended the stairs, eager for the solitude of his room. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and closed it firmly behind him. He froze mid-step.
A figure stood by the window, partially hidden in the silvery light.
For a moment, his weary mind struggled to process what he was seeing. The shape was unmistakably a woman: slender yet poised, the faint outline of a cloak draping her shoulders. The moonlight caught the edge of her profile — a sharp line of a jaw, the faint curve of her cheek — and then she shifted slightly, blending into the room’s heavy shadows.
Finley’s muscles coiled instinctively. His hand flew to the dagger at his belt, the hilt cold and familiar beneath his fingers.
He didn’t stop to question.
With the silence of a predator, he crossed the room in two swift strides. Before the intruder could react, his arm shot out, clamping firmly around her throat. In the same fluid motion, he edged her neck to the side and pressed the blade against her skin, the sharp edge gleaming in the faint light.
“Who are ye?” His voice was low, his eyes locked on the intruder’s face.
The woman didn’t flinch. If she felt fear, she masked it well. Her face remained partially in the shadows, only her lips visible as they curved into a faint, maddening smirk.
“Ye’ve an odd way o’ greeting a guest,” she murmured, her voice a silky blend of calm and mockery. Her words had an almost musical quality. It was clear she’d anticipated his reaction, as if she had orchestrated the moment down to its finest detail.
She remained utterly unfazed, even as the dagger pressed against her throat. Instead, her gaze — steady and unwavering — flicked over him, taking in every detail of his stance, his grip, and the flash of barely contained panic in his eyes when he had first realized she was in his room. The subtle rise of her brow spoke volumes, as if she found his predictable response more entertaining than threatening.
Finley tightened his grip, leaning closer. The dagger pressed into her skin just enough to send a warning. “I’ll nae ask again,” he growled. “Who are ye, and what’s yer business in me room?”
Still the woman showed no sign of distress. Her calm unnerved him more than if she had fought back.
“Ye draw far too much attention tae yersel’, Finley Lennox,” she said softly, her tone as cold as the steel in his hand. “Taking the finest room in the inn, striding through the market like ye’ve nay enemies. Aye, it’s nay wonder ye’re so easy tae find.”
Finley stiffened. The casual way she spoke his name sent a jolt through him. Who was she, and how did she know him? His grip on her neck tightened, his knuckles whitening.
“Careful, me laird,” she purred, her lips curving into a sly grin as Finley felt the press of cold metal against his stomach and she shifted just enough for him to see the blade. “I’d suggest ye let me go,” she said, her voice maddeningly calm. “If I’d meant tae kill ye, ye’d already be dead.”
His jaw tightened, and he could feel her gaze on him, tracing every subtle shift in his expression. The frustration that simmered beneath the surface was barely contained, and he was certain she saw it — making him more tense, more rigid, with each passing second.
Her eyes flickered with something that bordered on amusement, and perhaps a touch of satisfaction, as if she were enjoying the effect she had on him, fully aware of the power she held over him.
His eyes flicked downward, locking onto the blade pressed against his stomach. Its hilt was adorned with a symbol that he had seen many times before: three interlocking circles, the unmistakable mark of the Triad.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Finley’s pulse thundered in his ears as his mind raced, the blade at his stomach an unspoken reminder of just how precarious his situation was.
Edin watched as Finley struggled to process what was happening and he could sense her satisfaction again. The laird, with all his strength and authority, rendered momentarily powerless in the face of her calm defiance.
“At least the Triad’s got a bit o’ spirit in them. Didnae think ye were fer theatrics,” Finley said with a sharp laugh, stepping back as he slid his dagger into its sheath. “Now then, will ye finally tell me who I’ve the pleasure o’ speakin’ tae?”
The woman adjusted her cloak, revealing striking features framed by dark hair. Her gray eyes gleamed in the dim light. “Edin,” she said simply. “I’ve been sent tae aid ye in finding yer sister.”
“Ye’re early,” he said, his voice laced with just a hint of suspicion. “I didnae expect ye fer another day.”
Edin turned to face him fully, her lips curving into her now familiar smirk. “Early? Ach, I’m here when I meant tae be,” she replied, her tone light and teasing, though a sharp glint in her eyes hinted at something more.
“Have ye booked a room, then? Or were ye plannin’ tae haunt me doorway all night?”
She chuckled, the sound low and unhurried. “I’ll nae need a room of me own. Ye’ve already one here, and I see nay reason we cannae share.”
Finley blinked, caught off guard by her brazen suggestion. “Share? D’ye think it wise fer a man and a woman tae stay in the same room, especially while ye’re so keen on lecturin’ me about discretion?”
Her gaze sharpened, her amusement giving way to practicality. “What’s unwise is drawin’ attention tae yerself, bookin’ fine rooms and leavin’ trails. Ye want tae find yer sister, aye? Then ye’ll need tae learn tae move without the whole of Kilmaroy takin’ note of yer comings and goings.”
He let out a scoff, crossing his arms over his chest. “And ye think ye’re the expert on such matters, dae ye? That sounds like insanity tae me.”
“I found ye, didnae I?” She took a step closer, her expression cool and measured as she lowered her voice. “Insanity keeps folk alive, Finley. Call it what ye will but mark me words — if ye cannae blend in, ye stand out, and that’ll make ye a target.”
Her words hung in the air, pressing against his pride. For a moment, he said nothing, his jaw working as he mulled over her warning. Finally, he nodded, though his tone remained firm. “Fine, then. But hear me well: I’ll nae be takin’ orders from ye. We’re equals in this. I’ve a duty tae me family, tae Davina, and nay one has more reason tae bring her back than I dae.”
Edin tilted her head, her gaze unwavering as she studied him. “Equals, then,” she said softly, though her smirk hinted at her amusement. “So long as ye ken that the moment ye compromise our safety, I’ll nae hesitate tae remind ye of what’s at stake.”
The tension in the room lingered as they looked at one another.
Finley studied her for a moment, noting the confidence in her stance and the sharp intelligence in her gaze. “Well, Edin, it seems we’re tae be partners. Tell me, where dae we begin?”
She inclined her head slightly. “The Triad has granted us access tae one of their knowledge centers. It’s a rare privilege, so we’ll start there.”
Finley nodded, his expression turning serious. “Then we’ve nay time tae waste. The sooner we begin, the sooner we find Davina.”
Edin’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Ye might want tae rest first. Ye look as though ye’ve been dragged through the mud.”
He let out a dry chuckle. “Three days of hard riding will tae that tae a man. We set out at first light.”
Edin nodded and moved toward the door. “I’ll be downstairs if ye need me. Try nae tae draw any more attention tae yerself.”
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…
Moira’s wrists throbbed, as she unsuccessfully tried to release her hands from the damp rope rubbing them raw.
The cellar reeked of mold and stale earth, and the air was heavy with the musty scent of decay. It was dark, so while she couldn’t see her surroundings, she could hear the faint squeak of mice and the rattling of their claws against the stone.
None of that bothered her, though.
She reminded herself sternly that she had to focus right now to get out alive. Although she had been taken to the cellar blindfolded, she had thoroughly scanned her surroundings the moment she had arrived at the laird’s party that evening, exactly as she’d been taught to do.
Moira knew that she was below the small cottage that was on the laird’s largest wheat crop field. It was close enough to the ocean that she could hear the waves, though not close enough to offer her an escape.
She knew that no matter how fast she ran toward the lapping tide, she’d be caught and killed before reaching any semblance of safety.
She cursed as she banged her restrained hands against the cellar gate. The laird’s party was still going on outside the main castle—she could hear the faint sounds of music and laughter.
It would likely go on for a few more hours, so she had to find a way out before then.
“We’ll deal wi’ ye later,” a grim looking guard had muttered, before chucking her inside.
She couldn’t believe her luck. Her first mission as an apprentice in the Triad, gathering intelligence on clan Buchanan, rival of the clan that had hired them. Everything seemed to have been going well at first. She had kept quiet, speaking only when spoken to, while letting her superior do most of the talking.
She had not thought she was asking too many questions, not enough to raise suspicion, at least.
Just as she was wrapping her cloak around her shoulders to leave, a couple of the Laird’s closest men stepped forward, and asked her to go on an evening stroll.
Moira knew immediately that something was wrong. She felt it, deep within the pit of her stomach. But she barely had time to think before she was blindfolded, tied, and carried away to the cell that she was now trying to escape.
It doesnae matter how it happened now, Moira reminded herself.
Despite the tightness in her stomach and the cold sweat on her forehead, as she wondered whether those were going to be her last breaths, she tried hard to calm down and keep her wits about her. She remembered the words of the Triad, dinnae fear death fer it’ll tak’ ye faster.
She had to find a solution, that was all she could think about now.
As she paced back and forth, she jolted, her thoughts interrupted by a loud thud nearby.
She froze, listening hard for any other noise.
Perhaps death was coming faster than she thought.
The sound of boots on the stone floor getting closer and closer to Moira, set a beat for her quickening heart.
Frantically, she searched along the cell floor with her hands for anything she could use to cut her hands free from their bindings.
It was too late.
The door that was closest swung wide open, and standing at the end of the hall was the large shadow of a man.
The light behind him obscuring his features, all she could see was his impressive stature. His arms, relaxed to the sides of his belted paid, looked like they could easily crush her. It was still too dark to see clearly, but her eyes shifted to his formidable thighs. Large and thick as though carved from stone. This lad had the body of a warrior, there was no doubt about that, and he could clearly overpower her with ease. She had to be very careful.
Her breath caught as he stepped forward, the dim light catching the glint of a blade at his hip.
As he walked toward her cell, she did her best to use the small slither of light to her advantage. She had to look for something to free, or at least protect, herself.
Something sharp. Perhaps she could take his dagger?
But as he came close enough for her to glimpse his face, she was surprised. His eyes seemed kind and gentle, he didn’t seem menacing at all.
“Are ye all right?” He asked, his voice low.
Was this a trick?
It’s wise o’ them tae bring in a bonnie an’ concerned looking lad tae confuse me and take me quietly tae me death.
“Just fine,” Moira said, her gaze darting to his dagger. “But I think I’ll feel a little better wi’ me hands untied from this rope.”
He brought his face close to the bars that stood between them. His eyes studied her with an intensity that caused an unwanted fluttering in her chest.
“Ye dinnae look fine,” he said, his voice echoing across the damp stone walls. “Dinnae worry I’m nae here tae hurt ye.”
Moira swallowed hard as she forced herself to hold his gaze.
He must be lying.
As a member of the Triad, she knew that tactics came in all shapes and sizes. She knew that someone could pretend to be helping you, pretend to be concerned, only to weaken you and later stab you in the back.
But there was something about the way he looked at her that confused her. It felt too earnest, too real.
“Who are ye?” She asked.
“Roderick Fraser,” he said. “I came here as a guest, I dinnae have much o’ a taste fer these things, so I went walkin’ along the lands. That’s when I saw ye gettin’ blindfolded an’ tied up.”
Moira’s pulse quickened. A guest? That meant he was another laird’s man—or perhaps a laird himself.
“Aye,” she said. “An’ ye came in here alone?”
“The place was unguarded.”
“Why?”
“Because the laird o’ this place is a fool, that’s why,” Roderick responded wryly.
Moira studied him intently. While she should have been looking for something to arm herself with, she was distracted again by the strong cut of his jaw, the way the side of his face creased when he smiled. But it was his eyes that unsettled her the most.
Deep and steady, as though they saw her for who she really was—Moira. Not just some foolish lass tied up in a cell.
“I meant,” she said, her voice soft, “why did ye come tae get me?”
“A lass like yerself shouldnae be left here tae rot in the dark alone.”
Moira’s cheeks flushed and something inside her warmed. This Roderick Fraser had no idea what sort of lass she was. But she liked the way he spoke as if he did.
As though he saw something in her worth saving.
“Now,” he continued, “I dinnae think we have much time, so stand back.”
Moira obeyed. There was calm and decisive authority in the way he spoke.
While she couldn’t really trust him, she also couldn’t just stay stuck in this cell.
As she backed up, pressing herself against the stone wall, she watched Roderick pull the small, sharp blade from his belt.
With a firm grip, he wedged the blade between the iron bars, testing the strength of the lock.
“Stay back,” he warned again.
“Aye,” Moira said. “Mak’ sure ye turn it the right way. Ye’ll break the blade if ye rush it.”
Roderick cast her a quick glance, his lips tilting into a smirk. “Comin’ from the lass who’s locked up?”
Moira lifted her chin, trying to ignore the strange feelings Roderick was stirring.
Something in her angered, but not at what the laird had said—she was angry at her body for the heat spreading up the side of her neck. Angry at that foreign feeling of tension pooling in her lower belly.
“Aye, well, just because I’m in here daesnae mean I’m daft,” she said.
Roderick’s smirk deepened. “Aye, of course nae,” he said.
He turned his attention back to the lock, moving the blade with precision. Moira noticed how the muscles in his forearm flexed as he twisted the blade.
She was watching him too closely, and not because she was trying to gather intel on him, which was exactly what she should have been doing. But because of something else.
Part of her relaxed.
And before she knew it, there was a soft snap.
The lock gave way and the door creaked open with a groan. Now there was nothing between them.
Something in her tightened as he came toward her with the blade. She took an instinctive step away from him, but she wasn’t really frightened.
He didn’t speak, but he brought the knife to the rope that bound her wrists, and his eyes flickered briefly to hers before concentrating on the knot.
She focused her attention on the rope as the sharp edge of the blade cut it with ease. Being this close to him was overwhelming, and she did everything she could to avoid his gaze for fear that he might notice how she was feeling.
The rope fell to the floor, and finally, she was free. She could have run, but she didn’t. She remained completely still, her heart pumping wildly in her chest.
“Thank ye,” she said softly. She was embarrassed, but she was grateful—she’d been given a second chance.
“Let’s get ye out o’ here,” he said. “Before the laird o’ this castle comes fer me head.”
“Aye,” she said.
Roderick moved ahead of her, and she followed closely behind, though she staggered slightly. The men who had locked her in there had been a little rough, and her muscles ached from being jostled, but she gritted her teeth, following behind him quickly.
They moved to the main level of the estate, heading for the door.
Roderick swung it open, the moonlight flooding in as the breeze swept his golden hair. She hadn’t noticed his hair was golden until now.
The intensity of his light eyes once again made her heart flutter.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low, carrying over the sound of the waves crashing nearby.
“Naething,” she said quickly, “me body is just a little sore is all, but I’m fine.”
“Put yer arm over me,” he demanded. “If we’re goin’ tae mak’ it across that field tae me horse—yer goin’ tae need some help.”
Moira knew that he was right. She hesitated for only a moment before nodding, stepping closer to him.
She could feel the heat of his body as she gently draped her arm over his broad shoulders.
As they moved through the night, she felt steadied, protected. Even though they hadn’t yet made it out, there was something about him that made her feel safe.
When they reached his horse at the far end of the field, he took her by the waist, lifting her up onto the saddle.
There was such an ease and certainty in the way he moved her—as though he had claimed her as his own.
Before she knew it, he swung himself up behind her, his large thighs trapping her onto the horse as she felt the warm sharp edges of his chest against her back. She tried to sit upright, but she couldn’t help but sink into him.
“Where am I takin’ ye?” He asked, his voice vibrating through her body.
“Tae the town.”
“Aye,” he said, pulling the reins on his horse.
As they galloped away from the laird’s estate and toward the closest town, Moira’s thoughts raced.
She was supposed to be thinking about the mess she had gotten herself into, not being distracted by him.
They rode in silence, until Moira was confident they were far enough away from her captors to not get caught.
“Ye can stop just here,” she said, pointing toward a small alley.
He nodded, stopping his horse. He stepped down, and just as she was about to jump off, he extended out his hand to help her.
She was planning to run away swiftly once they had stopped, but something in his expression made her pause.
“Thank ye,” she said softly, her breath hitching as he helped her down.
Once on the ground, she took a few steps forward, and he followed without another word, keeping beside her protectively. She turned to face him and they stood in silence, the tension broken only by the strong wind.
“Here,” Moira finally said, reaching into her pocket and outstretching her hand to reveal the Triad’s coin.
She didn’t know what else to say, she didn’t know what she was supposed to do. Not when those honey-colored eyes made her feel so small.
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…
