Chapter One
1637, Balmoral Castle
“I ken this is silly… yet I would give everything tae be his.”
The thought burned through Lady Ishbel Hume as her eyes found him across the hall. The music swelled, violins and pipes weaving through the vaulted chamber, but she barely heard them. Shadows clung to the edges of the masquerade, and there she sat, half-hidden, her gaze fixed on one man alone.
Tall, commanding, black hair gleaming under torchlight and eyes the piercing blue of a Highland loch, Laird Seamus Scott seemed carved from stone. Distant, untouchable, and far beyond her reach.
Ishbel’s lips parted in a silent sigh, her fingers brushing lightly against the curve of her neck as if to soothe the ache she dared not name. She lifted her goblet, the wine warm against her tongue, but it did nothing to quiet the truth that pressed against her chest: she could never have him.
Laird Seamus Scott.
He had never noticed her. Why would he? Her clan, Clan Hume, belonged to the land, rooted in soil and harvest, bound to hills that never shifted. His was born of the sea, of black-hulled ships and tides that answered to no laird.
They were separate worlds, with nothing to offer one another in trade or treaty. A pirate lord had no reason to ally with a land-bound family. And thus a daughter of that family had no right to dream of him.
She knew nothing could ever come of her longing, yet her heart betrayed her, beating faster each time her eyes found him.
“Still starin’, sister?” The voice of Katherine, the oldest of her three younger sisters, interrupted her reverie, teasing but warm. Ishbel flinched, her hand tightening around the stem of her goblet before she turned to meet her sister’s mischievous smile.
“It isnae what ye think,” Ishbel whispered, though heat rose to her cheeks.
“Oh, it is exactly what I think,” Katherine laughed, nudging her shoulder playfully. “Three years o’ sighs and stolen glances, and still ye pretend it is naethin’.”
Ishbel shook her head, though her fingers twisted nervously in her lap. “Admiration, naethin’ more.”
Katherine leaned closer, her tone softening. “Ye ken ye cannae lie tae me. I see the way yer breath catches when he enters a room.” She brushed a stray curl from Ishbel’s temple, her eyes gleaming with affection.
Ishbel arched a brow, lips curving into a wry smile. “And what if it daes? Breathin’ is hardly a crime.”
Katherine laughed, nudging her shoulder. “But it is a crime that ye think I dinnae notice what’s behind those sighs.”
“Hopeless, perhaps,” Ishbel replied dryly, lifting her goblet with deliberate grace.
“Or maybe somethin’ more.”
“Somethin’ like what?”
“Smitten, maybe?” Katherine’s grin widened, teasing yet affectionate.
“Ye’re bein’ dramatic.”
Katherine tilted her head, eyes narrowing with playful challenge. “Then prove it. Dance with someone else.”
Ishbel’s smile sharpened. “And why, pray, should I dae that? Tae satisfy yer amusement?”
“Because,” Katherine said, leaning even closer, her voice conspiratorial, “I want tae see if ye can look at another man without yer heart betrayin’ ye.”
Ishbel opened her mouth to retort, but Katherine’s gaze flicked past her shoulder. She straightened, lips curving into a sly grin.
“There ye go. Yer chance.”
Ishbel straightened, determined to contradict her sister if only for the pleasure of proving her wrong. The words hovered on her lips, until a shadow fell across them both.
Her breath caught.
Oh, nay… not him. Anyone but him.
She turned, and a knot tightened in her stomach. The man before her was tall and slender, his frame sharp and precise, his presence carrying a cold, cutting weight rather than brute force. Pale hair framed a face of angular, calculating features, and his light eyes, cool and assessing, seemed to measure her as though she were something to be claimed.
Fearchar Kerr.
Son of Laird Kerr, sworn enemy of her clan. His smile was a blade, sharp and cruel, cutting through the fragile safety of the masquerade. He bowed with exaggerated courtesy, the gesture mocking rather than respectful.
“Lady Hume,” he said, his voice smooth, dangerous. “May I have this dance?”
Every instinct screamed no. Clan Kerr had long sought to destroy her family, their raids leaving scars on Hume lands. Yet such an obvious refusal would only create greater tension between the clans. Besides, there was Katherine’s wager. If she refused the dance, it would prove her sister right, even indirectly, and Ishbel did not want that.
It didn’t take long for her to realize that she could not refuse, no matter how much she wanted to.
Her lips parted. “Aye,” she said, though the word tasted bitter.
Fearchar’s hand closed around hers, firm, possessive. He led her to the floor, the crowd parting as the pipes struck a lively tune. Ishbel’s body moved, but her mind remained elsewhere—on Seamus, standing across the hall, his profile carved in stone.
Fearchar leaned close, his breath hot against her ear, the weight of his hand tightening around her wrist. “It is a shame,” he murmured, voice low and mocking. “A woman with such beauty… wasted. Ye sit in yer quiet hills prayin’ stronger men notice ye. But I have noticed ye, Ishbel. And I could lift ye from that irrelevance.”
Ishbel stiffened, her chin lifting despite the pain of his grip. “I need nay freedom from me clan. And certainly nae from ye.”
His smile curved, sharp as a blade. “Ye mistake me, lass. I am nae asking. I am telling ye.” His fingers pressed harder, sliding to her waist, the pressure bruising, meant to remind her of his strength.
There was a veiled threat in his words, one that sharpened with every passing second. Ishbel’s pulse quickened, fear curling cold in her chest. She had to get away from that man—immediately.
“This has been a mistake,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. “This dance is over.”
Fearchar’s grip tightened, his smile twisting. “Ye dinnae make the rules here, lass.”
Ishbel pushed against him, chin lifted in defiance. “On the contrary. I decide when I’ve had enough.”
She wrenched back, breaking the rhythm of the dance, skirts flaring as she tore herself free. But before she could step away, his hand shot out, catching her wrist with bruising force.
His eyes darkened, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “I remind ye there are ways tae take what I want. And I will—one way or another. Fer yer own good, dinnae resist.”
Her breath caught, but she held his gaze, refusing to flinch. “Ye speak of things that will never be.”
Fearchar’s chuckle was dark, curling through the chamber like smoke. “Never? I never take “never” fer an answer.”
Her heart pounded. She pulled back, slipping from his grasp. “Enough.”
Ishbel’s pulse raced, her skin prickling with unease. The chamber seemed to close in around her, shadows pressing against her as if conspiring with Fearchar’s threat. She scanned the hall, desperate for a glimpse of Katherine’s familiar smile or her parents’ presence, but there was no one. The crowd blurred, masks and laughter dissolving into a haze that offered no refuge.
Her instincts screamed. She had to move.
Gathering her skirts, she stepped quickly, weaving through the dancers with a determination that belied the tremor in her hands. Each footfall echoed her urgency, her breath shallow, her chest tight.
She pushed past a pair of revelers, their laughter sharp against her ears, and slipped into a corridor dimly lit by flickering torches. The air was cooler here, heavy with stone and silence. Her steps faltered, but she pressed on, the sound of her slippers quick against the flagstones.
At last, she found the door she was looking for half-hidden in shadow. With trembling fingers, she lifted the latch and slipped inside.
The room was quiet, far removed from the revelry beyond. The muffled strains of music faded to nothing, replaced by the steady rhythm of her own breathing. Ishbel pressed her back against the door, closing her eyes, willing her pulse to slow. Her hands shook as she clutched the folds of her gown, the memory of Fearchar’s grip lingering like a bruise.
Safe—fer now.
But the silence carried its own weight, and Ishbel knew the danger was not gone. The latch clicked. The door swung shut, and Fearchar Kerr stepped inside, closing it firmly behind him. The sound echoed like a verdict.
Ishbel’s breath caught. She retreated instinctively until her back struck the edge of a table. Just what she was reaching for. Fingers fumbling, she reached behind her, desperate for something—anything—to defend herself. Cold metal met her touch. A butter knife. She curled her hand around it, knuckles white, holding it as if it were a sword.
Fearchar’s smile was cruel, his eyes gleaming with intent. “Ye misunderstand, lass. I have a purpose, and ye will serve it. Whether ye wish it or nae.”
Ishbel lifted the knife, her voice sharp despite the tremor in her chest. “Come closer, and ye will regret it. I will nae be yer pawn.”
He chuckled, stepping nearer, the weight of his presence filling the room. His hand shot out, seizing hers with bruising force, twisting until the knife wavered. Ishbel gasped at the strength in his grip, but she refused to lower her gaze.
“Ye think ye have a choice,” he murmured, his tone low and dangerous. “But if I force ye, there will be nay escape. Nay path but one—ye will marry me, and yer clan will bend.”
The words struck like iron, heavy and final. Ishbel’s pulse thundered, fear and defiance warring within her. She tightened her grip on the knife, her voice steady, unyielding. “I’d rather be dead than be yer wife.”
“That can be fixed, but fer now… ye serve me purpose better alive. And with me,” announced Fearchar. One of his hands rose before brushing Ishbel’s cheek in a way that ended up chilling her blood.
Ishbel’s scream burst from her throat, raw and desperate, but she knew the music drowned it out, violins and flutes rising in cruel harmony. No one was coming to her aid, and the force with which Fearchar loomed over her made her know with terrifying certainty that his words were not mere threats, but truths about to become reality.
Her chest tightened, panic clawing at her ribs. This is the end, her mind whispered, cold and merciless. Fearchar’s shadow loomed closer, his grip unyielding, his intent clear, as one of his hands closed around her waist. The other clasped her wrist so tightly that she let out a cry of pain.
“Stop! Ye’re hurting me, stop!” Ishbel cried, but that statement seemed to satisfy Fearchar.
“Good, keep fighting. That fierceness adds flavor tae yer otherwise bland expression…”
She screamed for help again, but she knew it was useless. In that instant, she knew the night would never be the same.
Chapter Two
The scream tore from her throat, raw and desperate, but the music swallowed it whole. Violins and pipes played on, cruel and indifferent. Fearchar’s grip tightened on her wrist, grinding bone against bone, and his shadow swallowed the last of the candlelight.
No one is coming, no one heard. No one—
A sound.
Not music. Not the wind. The unmistakable thud of a door crashing against stone.
Fearchar’s head snapped up, his grip faltering. Ishbel twisted toward the sound, her heart a wild, frantic drum against her ribs.
A figure filled the doorway.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair loose from its tie, wild as the sea in a storm. His chest heaved as if he’d run through the very walls to reach her, and his eyes, grey and fierce as the North Sea in winter, were fixed on her.
On the tear tracks down her cheeks. On the bruise already blooming at her wrist. On the terror she could not hide.
Seamus.
The name was a prayer.
He moved. Not with the measured, careful steps of the ballroom. This was a predator’s stride, swift and absolute. His hand shot out and seized Fearchar’s arm, wrenching him away from her with a force that sent the smaller man stumbling. Seamus stepped between them, his broad back a wall of dark wool and coiled strength, and Ishbel was suddenly, blessedly hidden.
She could not see Fearchar’s face. She could only see Seamus’s shoulders, rigid as iron, and hear the low, deadly rumble of his voice.
“Ye will nae touch her again.”
It was a pronouncement.
Fearchar recovered quickly, his sneer twisting his handsome features into something ugly. “Ye’ve nay place here, Scott. This is between me and the lady.”
“The lady,” Seamus said, each word a shard of ice, “has made clear she wants nae part of ye.”
Ishbel watched his back, the play of muscle beneath his coat, the way his stance widened, anchoring himself between her and danger. No one had ever stood up for her like that.
Her father would have negotiated. Someone else may have called for guards. But Seamus Scott had simply arrived, and the storm had arrived with him.
He came fer me.
The thought bloomed in her chest, fragile and fierce. He had been across the hall, surrounded by lairds and admirals. He could not possibly have heard her scream over the music. And yet, there he stood, breathing hard, his knuckles white at his sides, ready to tear the world apart for her.
Why?
Fearchar lunged. His hand flew to his belt, and steel glinted in the dim light. Ishbel’s cry of warning died in her throat.
Seamus was faster.
His grip shot out, catching Fearchar’s wrist mid-strike. He twisted—once, sharply—and the dagger clattered to the floor with a sound like a death knell. Fearchar gasped, his arrogance finally cracking, and Seamus pushed. The smaller man stumbled backward, his heel catching on the edge of a rug, and crashed to the ground in an undignified heap.
Seamus did not advance. He did not gloat. He simply stood over his fallen adversary, his breathing steady now, his eyes cold as the depths of the sea.
“Ye will leave,” he said, his voice quiet, absolute. “And if ye speak of this tae any soul, I will ensure the whole of Scotland knows what manner of man crawls in the dark and calls himself a laird.”
Fearchar’s jaw clenched. His pride warred with the very real weight of Seamus’s authority pressing down on him. Slowly, he rose, dusting off his sleeves with trembling hands. His gaze flicked to Ishbel, with a promise of future reckoning.
“This isnae over,” he hissed.
Then he was gone, his footsteps sharp and furious against the stone, swallowed at last by the distant music of the oblivious hall.
The door clicked shut. Silence rushed in to fill the void.
Ishbel could not move. Could not breathe. Her body was still screaming, still braced for a blow that would never come. Her gaze was fixed on the broad, solid shape of the man standing between her and the door, his chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate control.
He turned.
His face, moments ago carved from ice and iron, softened as his eyes found hers. The storm receded, replaced by something quieter, something that looked almost like concern. Like relief.
“Are ye hurt?”
She should answer. She should thank him. She should be a proper lady and compose herself.
Instead, she looked at his hands, the hands that had disarmed a man with lethal precision, and saw that his knuckles were split, smeared with Fearchar’s blood.
He had not drawn his own weapon. He had not needed to. He had defended her with nothing but his own strength and will.
He came fer me, she thought again, and this time, the words carried a warmth that had nothing to do with gratitude.
He came.
***
A soft, broken sound reached his ears.
He reacted just in time.
The lass swayed, her strength giving way all at once, as if the terror she had kept at bay had finally claimed its due. Seamus caught her by the arms before she could fall, steady hands gripping gently but firmly.
“Easy,” he murmured, lowering her with care.
He guided her down until she was seated against the edge of the table, then knelt before her, one knee touching the cold stone floor. Only when she was safe did he loosen his hold, though he stayed close, ready should she falter again.
She trembled, subtly, fiercely, as though her body had yet to accept that the danger had passed.
Up close, she was more striking than he had expected. Not merely beautiful, though she was that—brown curls framing a pale face, lashes still damp with unshed tears—but something else stirred in him, something sharper.
Her eyes met his. Green. Not soft. Not broken.
There was fear there, yes, but beneath it, resolve. Fire held in check. The look of someone who had been cornered and had chosen to bare her teeth rather than surrender.
She would have fought him alone, Seamus realized. Knife or nay knife. Claws or bare hands. She was nay trembling lamb.
A wolf.
The thought settled deep in his chest.
“Are ye hurt?” he asked quietly. His voice was low now, stripped of the steel he had used on Fearchar. “Did he—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “Did he harm ye?”
She drew in a careful breath before answering, as though steadying herself on the sound of his voice.
“Nay,” she said. Her tone was soft, but not weak, only shaken. “Nay… nae beyond fright.”
Her hands rested in her lap, fingers curled tightly into the fabric of her gown. Seamus noticed the faint redness at her wrist, where Fearchar’s grip had been.
His jaw clenched.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant more than the word could carry. “Ye should never have been put in such a position. Nae in any hall. Nae under any roof.”
Her lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across her face. Then she inclined her head, just a little.
“Thank ye,” she said. “Fer coming. Fer… nae turning away.” She hesitated, then added, almost shyly, “Laird Scott.”
Hearing his name on her lips startled him more than he expected. He straightened a fraction, eyes searching hers.
“Seamus is fine” he said. “And ye are?”
“Lady Ishbel Hume.” The name struck him with quiet force. The eldest of their host that night. A daughter of the land, born to soil and stone. There was no reason their paths should ever have crossed. No reason he should be standing there, her name on his lips like a vow he hadn’t meant to make.
And yet…
“Ishbel,” he repeated, softer now, as if testing the sound. It settled into him at once, like something already familiar. Something he would not forget.
She shifted slightly, embarrassed by the tremor she could not quite still. “I apologize,” she said. “I did not mean tae… collapse like some faint-hearted girl.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, though his gaze remained serious. “Ye stood yer ground when many wouldnae have,” he said. “That is nae bein’ faint. That is courage.”
Her eyes flickered, uncertain, then warmed, just a touch. “I was afraid,” she admitted.
“Aye,” he replied simply. “So was I.” That earned him a faint, surprised smile.
For a moment, neither spoke. In that brief pause of silence, Seamus could see it: the nervousness that still possessed the young lass. The way her fingers still trembled slightly against the fabric of her dress, the way her shoulders remained too tense, as if bracing for another blow that would never come.
There was no point in rushing her. Especially when he had no desire to leave either.
Instead, he decided to lighten the mood between them. The tension was easier to hide when attention was diverted to other things.
After a heartbeat, he added, lightly, “Ye gave Fearchar Kerr quite the fright. I doubt he expected a lass tae bare her teeth at him.”
Her smile faltered, then returned, a little truer this time. “I doubt he expected anyone tae come through that door.”
“Aye,” Seamus said. “That much is clear.”
Another pause followed. The muffled music from the hall drifted in again, distant and unreal. Ishbel’s gaze flicked toward the door, then back to him.
“Should I call fer someone?” he asked gently.
She shook her head. “Not yet. I will go to them soon.” Her voice softened. “But just now… I would rather stay here.”
The admission surprised him. It should not have mattered. It should have meant nothing.
And yet— “Aye,” he said again, more quietly now. “I understand.”
Ishbel’s intrigued gaze followed his every move. A silent question was reaffirmed in her gaze, in the doubt on her part-open lips.
He hesitated, then spoke, his tone low, almost careful.
“If we are tae remain hidden a while longer,” he said, “perhaps ye would dae me the honor of a dance, Lady Ishbel Hume.”
He could see the moment when she held her breath, as if processing the question—and Seamus knew, with bone-deep certainty, that whatever answer she gave would change the course of the night, and far more than that.
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