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Chapter One

1653, Calder Castle

It was a cold, wet day when Lady Grizel Calder was faced with the true scope of her father’s ruin. It was not reckoned in silver, nor in acres of failing land, but in the cold, deliberate manner with which he meant to sell her. She was the price to be paid.

Outside the study windows, the March wind worried at the old stone of Calder Castle and sent a thin whistling through the cracks, so that even the fire on the hearth seemed to burn with unease. The room smelled of peat smoke, damp wool, and the bitter tang of sealing wax. Her father, Laird Amhlaidh Calder, stood with one hand braced upon the great oak desk, his papers spread before him in apparent disarray, that was too carefully arranged to be accidental. He had always loved the appearance of order most when matters were desperate.

“Sit down, Grizel.”

His voice was graver than usual, and she obeyed, though not from meekness. She sat because she wished to hear her sentence clearly, and because a lady ought, at the very least, to meet the destruction of her peace with a straight spine.

The leather of the chair was cold through her gown. She folded her hands in her lap to keep him from seeing they were not entirely steady.

“Is something the matter, Faither?”

He did not answer at once. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft hiss of the fire and the tapping of bare branches against the pane. At length he exhaled, as if what he had to say had the weight of misfortune upon it, though Grizel suspected that, to him, the chief misfortune lay in the necessity of saying it aloud.

“There has been an offer.”

She looked at him. “For the eastern grazing?” she asked, though she knew already by the strange compression in his mouth that the matter was much worse.

“Nae.”

The single word dropped between them like a stone into black water.

He moved around the writing table then and faced her straight on, and in that instant, she saw not her father as she had known him in childhood, the towering, unquestioned master of Calder, but rather as a man thinned by pride and debt, by sleepless nights and letters he did not wish his daughter to read.

The cuffs of his coat were brushed but frayed, and the signet on his hand flashed dully in the firelight. He had the look of a man who had fought ruin for too long and had at last determined to make terms with it.

“It is for ye.”

Though her breath caught, she lifted her chin. “I was nae aware,” she answered, “that I had been listed among the cattle.”

His eyes narrowed, but he let the insolence pass. That troubled her more than reproof would have done.

“This is nae time for cleverness, lass. Ye have tae marry.”

The wind rose outside, flinging sleet against the glass with a sharp rattle. Grizel heard it distinctly, and afterward, would always remember the sound of the storm scratching to be let in while her father calmly arranged to send her out into one far worse.

“Tae whom?”

He hesitated. A queer chill moved over her skin. There were names she had half-feared these last months. They belonged to grasping men with broad acres and broader appetites, widowers with inconvenient children, and dull noblemen whose conversation alone might have been counted a cruelty. Yet none of them prepared her for the name he finally pronounced.

“Laird Beathan Drummond.”

For one stunned moment, the room lost all proportion. The fire became too hot, and the air too close. Her senses heightened, she smelledthe resin of the writing table polish, the burnt edge of peat, and the faint sourness of rain-damp stone. All of it grew unnaturally vivid, the natural reaction of a body readying itself for danger.

“Drummond?” she repeated, though she had heard perfectly.

“Aye.”

“Nae.”

It escaped her before she could dress it in civility. She rose so quickly the chair legs grated across the floor. “Nae. Ye cannae mean it, Faither.”

“I wish there was another way, lass,” he sighed heavily, raking his fingers through his hair. “But there isnae.”

She was shaking her head in disbelief. “Beathan Drummond is old enough tae have dandled me on his knee.”

Her father frowned. “He is a man of consequence.”

“He is a man of violence.”

Her father’s mouth hardened. “Ye speak from rumor, just like everyone else.”

“I speak,” Grizel spoke, and now the blood had rushed to her face, warming it with indignation, “from memory.”

She could see it clear as day: the ballroom at Inveraray in the spring, awash in candlelight and beeswax and perfume, the crush of silk sleeves and murmuring voices. Drummond’s hand at her back had been too firm, and his smile too fixed. He had claimed one dance, then another, and then a third, though she had withdrawn as often as decency allowed. There had been wine on his breath, and something else beneath it, some rank odor of possession, as if he had already decided that whatever he touched had to remain in his grasp. He had not spoken to her as a gentleman spoke to a lady, but as a buyer examined cloth.

Even now the memory left a stain of revulsion upon her.

“He would nae let me leave his side,” she reminded him, speaking softer now, because fury, if too keenly felt, always approached tears.

“Some would say that he was admiring ye,” her father corrected.

“He cornered me, hunted me.”

Her father turned away, moving back behind the writing table as if the width of it had the power to restore his authority. “Admiration in a man is nae crime.”

“Nae,” she agreed. “But murder ought tae be.”

His gaze flashed up. “Ye have tae be careful of yer words, Grizel. Making an enemy of such a man is nae good for anyone.”

“Does he deny it?”

He inhaled deeply before speaking. “There was never any proof.”

“There was a dead wife.”

He sighed. “Grizel… ye have always been outspoken, but ye can nae speak tae me of what powerful men may or may nae have done when our own house stands on the brink of ruin. Drummond offers security, settlement of debt, protection of title. Without it…”

Without it, Calder would continue its slow collapse of restless tenants, fallen revenues, emboldened creditors and neighbors akin to crows watching over a wounded beast. She knew all this. She had known it long before her father guessed she did. But knowledge did not soften the horror.

She stared at him. “Is there truly nae other path?”

He stared at her not as a man offended, but as one who had been struck in a place already bruised. His hand tightened on the edge of the parchment, then fell away from it helplessly.

“There is nae, I swear tae ye. I have been thinking on it, but… nae.”

The words lay between them, flat and final. Grizel turned her face slightly toward the window lest he should see the breadth of her unease.

On the far hills, a line of mist had settled like a grey veil. Somewhere below, in the yard, a stable door banged once, then again. The castle seemed suddenly full of sounds she had never before counted, the clink of a harness, the draft under the door, and the faint settling groan of old timber. All at once she loved it with the crushing, painful tenderness one feels only when something is being taken away.

Then, because despair was a luxury she could not afford, she forced herself to think. When she turned back, her voice was composed.

“If I must marry,” she mused, “then allow me one week.”

He frowned. “For what?”

“For a better offer.”

A bleak laugh escaped him. “Ye speak as if suitors may be plucked like apples.”

“I speak,” she returned, “as a Calder ought tae speak when cornered. One week, Faither. If I fail, ye may dae as ye please. At the end of the week, if I have nae secured an alliance better suited tae our name and safety, I shall nae oppose ye again.”

His fingers moved restlessly over the edge of the papers on his desk. “And where dae ye imagine ye will find this miraculous, better husband?”

“I imagine,” Grizel retorted, “that it is me business tae try.”

He was silent long enough that she heard a cinder collapse in the grate with a soft red sigh.

“Drummond will nae like delay.” He sounded apologetic. She knew that he was.

“He is nae asked tae like it,” she told him rebelliously.

He sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. “Ye dinnae understand the sort of man he is.”

Her laugh was thin and without mirth. “On the contrary, Faither, I believe I understand him better than ye wish.”

That seemed to strike him, though he would not admit it. He rubbed a hand across his brow and looked suddenly older, the lines about his mouth deepening in uneasy grooves.

“There is worse news,” he told her.

A thread of dread tightened inside her. “What could be worse?”

He did not meet her eyes at first. “He has already sent his men.”

The silence that followed was so complete she could hear the faint beat of her own pulse.

“Sent them where?”

“Here, tae escort ye.”

The room tilted, only slightly, but enough that Grizel had to place a hand on the chair-back.

Escort.

Such a pretty word, polished and harmless, set over an outrage like lace laid atop a wound.

“But, nae agreement has been made yet,” she reminded him.

“Aye, it has nae. There has been nae signed agreement, nor word before witnesses. But men like him usually consider such matters settled based solely on their own desires.”

Rage overtook her, burning away the last of her fear. “Then he presumes above his station.”

“He presumes because men have allowed him tae prosper by presuming,” her father spoke with a weary bitterness she had not expected. “Listen tae me now. If ye mean tae attempt this wild scheme, ye cannae dae so openly. If his men arrive and find ye gone, there will be consequence enough. If they find ye in the act of leaving…”

He stopped. The fire crackled. Rain tapped harder at the pane.

Grizel drew a slow breath. The taste of smoke sat at the back of her throat. “Then I must nae be found.”

At that, he finally looked at her, not as a laird looking upon an asset, nor quite as a father looking upon a daughter, but as a man measuring the resolve of another and finding it unexpectedly firm.

“One week, Grizel,” he agreed at last. “And nae a day more. I cannae delay him longer.”

It was not a blessing, nor forgiveness, nor love that she got from her father, it was merely time. And time was what she needed.

She inclined her head respectfully, because triumph would have been foolish. “Thank ye, Faither.”

“Dae nae thank me.” His voice roughened, making her grasp the full severity of the situation. “I have put him off with talk of terms, witnesses and proper forms. But ye can nae underestimate Drummond. Men like him are never so dangerous as when refused.”

Grizel thought of the ballroom again, of his hand pressing too hard at her waist, of the gleam in his eye when she had withdrawn hers from his grasp. She did not underestimate him. That was precisely why she meant to run.

She left the study with her heart still beating hard, but no longer wildly. The corridors of Calder Castle stretched before her in the dimming light, familiar stone and worn rushes and the faint mingled scents of rosemary, smoke, and damp wool. A servant passed carrying linens, and somewhere in the lower hall a hound barked once. Everything looked so ordinary that she might almost have doubted the exchange had taken place, had not her entire future altered with it.

In her chamber, she packed swiftly and with care, taking a dark riding cloak, some spare linen, a comb, the little dagger she kept hidden though no one knew it, and what coin she could gather without notice. She took only what would fit into one small satchel.

There was no room for sentiment. Yet when her hand brushed the carved box that had once belonged to her mother, she paused.

Not sentiment, perhaps. Memory.

She shut the lid and left it where it was.

Night had deepened by the time she slipped down the back stairs. The air in the stable yard struck cold and wet against her face, smelling of rain, churned earth, and horses. The lantern by the stable door swayed in the wind, sending light across puddles black as ink. Storm stamped softly in his stall when he saw her, then tossed his head with a low, impatient sound, as if he too understood haste.

“Hush, lad,” she whispered, though her own breath had shortened.

His coat was warm beneath her palm, sleek and dark as night. The leather of the saddle creaked as she tightened it with numbed fingers. She could hear her blood pumping frantically in her ears, the scrape of straw and the faint clatter of tack from somewhere farther down the row. Every sound seemed perilously loud.

When at last she led him into the yard, the wind caught her cloak and flung it hard about her ankles. Above, the clouds had swallowed the moon. Calder Castle loomed behind her in massed shadow, its towers black against a sky the color of iron.

One week, she thought.

One week to save herself from Beathan Drummond.

One week to bargain with fate before fate closed its hand around her neck.

Grizel set her boot to the stirrup and mounted. Then, gathering the reins in gloved fingers that no longer trembled, she turned Storm toward the dark road and rode out of Calder lands as quietly as a prayer and twice as desperate.

Chapter Two

The harbor smelled of salt, tar, fish-guts, and rain.

Grizel crouched behind a stack of weather-darkened crates and drew her cloak tighter about her shoulders, though it was not the cold that made her fingers stiff. Oban Harbor swarmed before her in a confusion of shouting men, creaking ropes, gulls wheeling and crying overhead, and carts grinding through the mud with a wet, miserable sound. The sea beyond was the color of beaten pewter, restless beneath a low sky, and every gust of wind flung brine into the air until it lay sharp on her lips.

She had found him.

That, at least, was something.

MacAulay’s ship rose at the dock not fifty yards from where she was hiding. It was long, lean, and dark in the water, with red sails furled high above like folded wings. Men moved briskly on the deck and gangplank with the easy confidence of those who belonged there. Barrels were rolled aboard. Coils of rope were hauled into place. Orders were called in rough, carrying voices. There was purpose in every motion, and a kind of severe economy she found at once intimidating and promising.

Somewhere on that vessel was Laird Malcolm MacAulay… her last chance.

Grizel shifted her weight slightly, pressing one gloved hand to the crate beside her. The wood was rough, damp with sea mist and smelling faintly of apples long since removed. She peered around the edge again, careful not to let even a fold of her cloak betray her position.

She could not yet distinguish which of the men on the deck was MacAulay, if he was visible at all. Rumor had given him many shapes these past days: a pirate, a former privateer, a laird more loyal to survival than sentiment, a man who bent when needed and cut when forced.

In addition to all that, she had heard that the king’s decree had not spared him. The pirate lairds were to marry Highland ladies within the year or face the slow strangling hand of the Crown. A wife, then, was no longer merely a domestic ornament or private desire. She was leverage, legitimacy and, protection.

And Grizel, could offer herself as means to meet that need.

The first problem stood across the harbor mouth in the shape of two broad-shouldered men who had not ceased haunting her steps since the outskirts of the town. Drummond’s men did not wear his colors openly, but they had his look upon them. One was leaning against a post near a fishmonger’s stall, speaking to no one and watching everything. The other loitered nearer the quay, with his cap pulled low, his hands tucked in his belt, and his attention wandering with too much purpose to be mistaken for idleness.

The second problem was worse yet.

MacAulay did not seem to come ashore.

Since dawn she had watched, hidden where she could, shifting from alley to stacked cargo to the lee of a cooper’s shed, only to discover that the man she sought seemed to have no intention of setting foot on the dock at all. Whatever business he had in Oban, he conducted it from the ship. Men went to him, none summoned him down. If she meant to speak with Laird Malcolm MacAulay, she had no choice but to board his vessel.

A gull landed atop the crates above her, gave a harsh, laughing cry, and flapped away again. Grizel closed her eyes for a moment.

This was madness. It had been madness in Calder. It had been madness on the road. It was madness here, in this reeking, noisy harbor at the edge of the sea. Yet there are moments when a lady’s alternatives are so poor that the only reasonable path is boldness in the face of chaos.

She looked again toward the ship. The tide had shifted. A longboat had just come in. Two sailors were arguing over a cask. The nearer of Drummond’s men had turned his head toward a cartload of herring being unloaded with much profanity and confusion.

And the ship was to depart within hours.

Now, then. If ever, now.

Grizel drew one careful breath, tasting salt and rain and the iron tang of fear at the back of her throat. Then she gathered her skirts in one hand, adjusted the satchel at her side, and slipped out from behind the crates.

At first, she moved with measured speed, keeping her head bowed, as though she were nothing more than another woman of the port with business of her own. Her boots struck the slick boards of the quay with soft, quick sounds. A rope brushed her ankle. A porter shouted behind her. She did not look left or right.

Ten yards… fifteen. The gangplank lay just ahead, crowded by two sailors lifting a chest between them.

Then someone barked. “There!”

Her blood turned to fire. Grizel ran.

Behind her came the unmistakable pound of heavy boots and a curse flung in the wind. She darted past a stack of barrels, nearly collided with a boy carrying nets, and heard him yelp as he stumbled aside. The harbor exploded into motion around her. She could both hear and see men turning, voices rising, gulls shrieking upward in alarm. Her cloak streamed behind her. Her breath tore in her chest. The wet boards slipped beneath her boots, and only desperation kept her from falling.

“Stop her!”

She reached the gangplank just as one of MacAulay’s sailors straightened in astonishment.

“What the devil—”

That was all he managed to say before she brushed past him with all the dignity of a hunted fawn and flew onto the deck.

The ship seemed to lurch beneath her, though perhaps it was only her own panic. The boards were dark and damp, smelling of pitch, salt, and old storms. Voices raised around her in sudden confusion.

Two of Drummond’s men came up after her at once. One caught her cloak from behind. The cloth jerked hard against her throat and nearly dragged her backwards. Grizel twisted with a sound that was more fury than fear and tore herself half-free, leaving the clasp in his fist. He lunged again. There was no room now for hesitation, and no safety in pleading. She snatched the dagger from beneath her cloak and slashed blindly.

The blade caught his sleeve and opened skin beneath. He swore viciously and came at her harder.

Everything after that happened with a speed so bewildering that memory later rendered it in flashes: a hand grabbed for her wrist, then the sting of salt wind in her eyes, followed by a sailor shouting for arms, the ring of steel and finally, a body colliding with another body hard enough to rattle the deck.

MacAulay’s men were on them in an instant.

The ship, so orderly a breath before, erupted into a brutal storm of movement. Sailors seized belaying pins and knives. Someone drove a shoulder into one of Drummond’s men and sent him crashing into the rail. Another caught the second by the collar and struck him across the jaw with enough force to spray blood across the boards.

Grizel tried to pull away from the fray, but one of Drummond’s men, maddened and red-faced, lunged toward her again. She slashed with the dagger once more, but in the scramble her foot skidded on wet timber. Pain shot hot and sharp through her leg as she struck the deck awkwardly on one knee. The world flashed white for a moment. She bit back a cry.

When she looked up, half breathless and half blinded by the sting of it, she saw him.

He was fighting not ten feet away.

Impressive was too small a word for such a man. He seemed cut from the same dark violence as the sea itself. He was tall and broad through the shoulders, moving with a terrifying steadiness amid the chaos. His coat was open to reveal a plain dark waistcoat beneath, and his dark hair, wind-tossed and too long at the collar to be fashionable, only sharpened the severity of his face.

There was nothing ornamental about him, as he fought with the clean, efficient force of a man who had done so often and disliked wasting time upon it.

One of Drummond’s men risked a swing at him. He caught the blow, turned, and drove the man back with such brutal precision that Grizel heard the impact of body against rail even over the uproar of the deck. The fellow doubled over. The man seized him by the coat and flung him bodily toward the gangplank, where two sailors finished the matter by throwing him off the ship amid a shower of curses.

Grizel had no leisure to marvel at it. Another of Drummond’s men had broken free of the sailors and lurched toward her. His face was dark with fury, and his hand was closing hard about the hilt at his belt. She tried to scramble back, but her injured leg failed beneath her, and the deck tilted horribly under her palm.

He was almost on her. She drew her breath to scream, but he reached her first. His hand clamped around her upper arm, cruel fingers biting through the sleeves of her gown, and he hauled her upright with enough force to wrench a cry from her throat. Her bad leg buckled at once. For one sickening instant, she was hanging in his grip, helpless.

“Got ye,” he snarled.

That’s when the man, the one who had captured her attention, moved like a lightning bolt. He crossed the space between them with startling speed, catching the attacker’s wrist before the blade could clear its sheath. Then, he twisted. The man gave a strangled cry and released Grizel at once. In the same motion, the stranger drove his shoulder into him and sent him staggering backward into two MacAulay sailors, who seized him at once. The blade clattered across the planks and came to rest near Grizel’s skirt.

For one absurd instant, even through pain and terror, Grizel could only stare up at the man who had saved her. He didn’t ask whether she was harmed. He didn’t even try to soothe her, nor waste a breath in gallantry. He merely glanced down at her, as if taking measure of whether she would live long enough to become another difficulty.

Then rough hands closed about her arms.

“We’ve another!” cried one of the sailors. “Off with her too!”

“Nae!” She twisted, but her injured leg buckled as soon as she tried to stand. Pain went through her sharply enough to turn her voice thin. “Let me go!”

The sailor tightened his grip. “Ye came aboard with them.”

“I did nae!”

“A likely tale.”

“Please… I must speak tae yer laird.”

That earned her a bark of laughter from someone nearby. “Must ye indeed?”

She lifted her chin despite the breathlessness clawing at her lungs. Her hair had come half-loose, and she could feel it whipping across her cheek in the wind. Her palms stung, her knee throbbed, and the deck seemed to shake with the aftermath of violence. But there are moments when a lady could save herself only by becoming more outrageous than anyone expected.

Her gaze moved, against her will, back to the man who had saved her. He was watching her now with such unnerving attention that heat climbed into her face despite the fear still rattling through her bones. He stood among the wreckage of the fight as though a storm had shaped him: hard, dark and impossible to look away from.

And though Grizel knew she ought to fear such a man, her foolish heart could only consider the fierce manner in which he had dispatched her attacker. She banished the thought and brought herself back to the present moment.

“Aye,” she urged. “At once.”

“And why,” asked the man holding her, “should our laird receive a creature who boards his ship with armed men at her heels?”

Grizel drew a breath. Dark, fathomless eyes narrowed, waiting for her answer, as if they already knew she was about to cause even more trouble.

“Because,” she told him clearly, “I am going tae marry him.”

The words fell into the sudden hush like a cannon shot. For a heartbeat, the ship seemed to pause with them. Several sailors stared outright. One made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh if he had dared let it free. Another crossed his arms and looked delighted by the prospect of scandal. Even the man holding her loosened his grip slightly in surprise.

And that’s when he stepped toward her.

Up close, he was more formidable still. His face was all hard lines and controlled strength. His mouth was severe, his jaw shadowed by the day, and his eyes dark enough to seem nearly black beneath lowered brows. There was sea-salt on his coat and a faint smear of blood across one knuckle that did not appear to be his own. He had the look of a man long accustomed to command and less accustomed to being amused.

Yet, amused he was… only a little, but still dangerously.

“Marry him, ye say?” he asked.

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Chapter One

The Great Hall smelled of spring flowers and ambition.

Lilias Grant stood at the far end of the stone chamber, her hands steady despite the flutter beneath her ribs. Every candle had been lit, every banner smoothed, every guest positioned precisely where protocol demanded. She would not allow nerves to undo her now.

Her father stood beside her, his weathered face carefully neutral. Beyond him, the assembled witnesses filled the hall with their rustling silks and hushed conversations. Highland lairds and their wives, Fraser kinsmen, merchants who’d traveled inland from the coast in their salt-stained plaids. All watching. All waiting.

At the front of the hall, beside the narrow-faced priest, stood Ewan Fraser.

Lilias’s gaze found him as it had a dozen times since her arrival at Castle Fraser. Tall and broad through the chest, his armor catching the candlelight, with dark blond hair worn close and a face carved into restraint. Her betrothed. The laird. The reason she was here. A man who armored himself for his own wedding was a man who took duty seriously. She told herself that was reassuring. That was what this was, after all. Duty.

His blue eyes didn’t track her approach. He looked straight ahead, stern and disapproving, as though the ceremony were an obligation to be endured rather than a moment to be marked.

He was exactly what her father’s reports had promised: controlled, serious, safe.

Her gaze drifted, almost against her will, to the man standing to the side of the hall.

Ailean Fraser. The younger brother. Tall and broad across the shoulders, whose blond hair that fell loose past his collar in a way that seemed almost careless. He wore dark leather and clan colors rather than formal regalia, and the combination made him look more like a man prepared for a hunt than a wedding. His blue eyes, on the other hand, tracked her approach with an intensity that made her pulse quicken despite herself.

He was handsome in a way that felt dangerous. Not the polished beauty of courtiers, but something rawer. Something that made her think of cold sea winds and the kind of recklessness that got men killed.

She pushed the thought aside and began walking. He wasn’t the man she was here to marry. Whatever reckless pull she felt looking at him was irrelevant. Ewan Fraser stood at the altar, and Ewan was the laird, the alliance, the reason she had traveled all this way. She had no business noticing anything else.

The priest’s voice rose in formal greeting. This marriage was strategy, not sentiment. Her father had negotiated well to secure this much.

She was three steps from the altar when Ewan faltered.

It was small at first. A stillness that didn’t belong. His shoulders locked, his chin dropped a fraction, and for one strange moment Lilias thought he had simply lost his place in the ceremony. Then his hand went to his chest.

The priest stopped mid-word.

His face twisted. Something moved behind his eyes, confusion first, then pain, then something worse than either. Then he collapsed.

The sound was enormous in the silence. Metal on stone, then nothing.

Then everything at once

The hall erupted.

Guests surged forward while servants scattered backward. Someone screamed. The priest stumbled away from the falling body, and Ewan’s guards rushed to their laird’s side, shouting for the healer. Ailean dropped to his knees beside his brother, hands hovering uselessly over Ewan’s convulsing form.

Lilias stumbled back a step, then another. Her mind refused to make sense of what she was seeing. She had planned every detail of this day. She had checked the arrangements three times over. There was no room in her careful preparation for this.

“Poison,” someone hissed. The word spread like flame through dry tinder. “The laird’s been poisoned.”

Then the alarm bells began to ring.

The sound cut through the panic, sharp and insistent. Somewhere in the castle, guards were shouting. Running footsteps echoed through the corridors beyond the hall.

“Intruder,” a guard bellowed from the doorway. “Inside the walls.”

Guests scattered. Women clutched their skirts and fled toward the kitchens. Men reached for weapons they hadn’t worn to the wedding. The healer arrived, but Lilias saw the truth in the woman’s face the moment she touched Ewan’s throat.

The laird was dead.

The thought landed in her chest like a stone dropping into still water. Dead. Her betrothed was dead on the floor of his own Great Hall, and suddenly the people pressing around her felt less like witnesses and more like a threat. Anyone here could have done this. Anyone here could do worse. She had to move, needed to find her father, needed to get out of the open before—

The hall collapsed into itself.

Someone screamed close to her ear. A body slammed into her shoulder and spun her sideways, and she caught herself on the edge of a table before the crowd swallowed the space where she’d been standing. Guards were drawing steel, the rasp of blades filling the air above the noise, and someone shouted an order that was immediately lost beneath a woman’s pitched wail and the crash of an overturned bench. Lilias tried to move toward the wall and found herself pushed back, the press of bodies disorienting, all elbows and shoulders and no sense of direction. Her veil tore. She couldn’t see anything beyond the backs and arms of people who had stopped being guests in the madness.

A guard shoved past her without looking, blade drawn, and she stumbled hard into the someone behind her, who caught her arm and then let go and was gone before she could turn. The floor felt unstable beneath her feet. She kept her hands out, kept moving, kept her breathing slow despite the tightening in her chest.

Then a hand closed around her arm. Firm, certain, and unmistakable in its purpose.

Ailean. His expression was carved from ice, his eyes already moving past her, scanning the room.

“Come with me,” he said. His voice was low, controlled, but she heard the steel beneath it. “Now.”

“Me faither—”

“Will be safer without ye as a target. Move.”

He pulled her toward a side passage, away from the panicking crowd. His hand was firm on her arm, guiding rather than dragging, but there was no room for argument in his grip. They reached a narrow stairwell that led toward the upper chambers, stone walls close on either side.

Lilias’s heart hammered against her ribs. “What’s happening?”

“I dinnae ken yet.” Ailean’s jaw was tight. “But ye’re the Crown’s bride, which makes ye valuable. If someone’s after the clan—”

A figure burst from the shadows ahead of them.

The man was young, wild-eyed, dressed in servant’s clothing that didn’t quite fit. He had a blade in his hand and desperation written across his face. When he saw them, he lunged for Lilias.

She barely had time to gasp before the intruder’s arm locked around her throat, the blade’s edge cold against her skin.

“Back,” the man snarled at Ailean. “Back or I’ll open her throat.”

Ailean froze mid-step. His hands rose slowly, but his gaze never left the intruder’s face. “Ye dinnae want tae dae that, lad.”

“I want tae get out of here alive.” The arm around Lilias’s throat tightened. She could smell his sweat, feel his pulse racing through the grip. “Let me pass or the lass dies.”

“Kill her and ye lose yer only leverage.” Ailean’s voice was eerily calm. “Then it’s just ye and me in this stairwell, and I promise ye that ends poorly fer ye.”

The blade pressed harder. Lilias forced herself to breathe shallowly, her hands gripping the intruder’s forearm. Her mind raced. The man was panicking. Panicking men made mistakes.

“I’ll dae it,” the intruder insisted. “I swear I’ll—”

Ailean moved.

One moment he was still, hands raised in placation. The next he’d closed the distance, one hand catching the intruder’s wrist and wrenching the blade away from Lilias’s throat while his other arm shoved her backward. She stumbled against the wall as Ailean twisted the man’s arm with brutal efficiency.

The intruder screamed. The blade clattered to the floor.

Then the guards were there, thundering up the stairs with swords drawn. They seized the struggling man and hauled him away from Ailean, who stepped back with controlled precision. Blood dripped from a shallow cut on the intruder’s forearm.

“Take him tae the cells,” Ailean ordered. A guard stepped forward, breathless from the stairs.

“Me laird, the council elders are asking tae convene. They say it cannae wait.”

Ailean’s jaw tightened. “Tell them one hour. I want every corner of this castle searched first and every guest accounted fer.” He paused. “Every person. Without exception.”

The guards dragged the intruder away. His protests echoed down the stairwell until distance swallowed them.

Silence fell.

Ailean turned to Lilias, his gaze sweeping over her with clinical assessment. “Are ye hurt?”

“Nay” Her voice came out steadier than she’d expected. “I’m fine.”

“Ye’re trembling.”

“I’m angry and scared.” She straightened, smoothing her skirts with hands that wanted to shake. “Me betrothed just died someone tried tae use me as a shield. I’m entitled tae tremble if I want tae.”

“Fair enough.”

She met his eyes fully for the first time since the chaos had begun. They were the color of deep water, and despite everything, she felt that same dangerous pull she’d experienced watching him at the altar. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, his hair disheveled from the struggle, and there was a controlled violence in the way he held himself that should have frightened her.

It didn’t.

“Yer braither,” she said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

His face shuttered. “So am I.”

Chapter Two

The Great Hall had emptied by the time Ailean returned. Servants were already clearing away the wedding feast that would never be eaten, moving with grim efficiency. Ewan’s body had been carried to the chapel to await preparation for burial.

Ailean stood in the center of the hall and felt the weight of leadership settle over his shoulders like armor he’d never wanted to wear.

The Council would convene within the hour. There would be questions about succession, about the intruder, about whether the marriage decree still bound them now that Ewan was dead. Politics would not pause for grief.

He thought of Lilias standing in that stairwell, blade at her throat, and the cold fury that had seized him. She was meant to be a political necessity, nothing more. Yet when that man had threatened her, Ailean’s only thought had been getting her free.

A woman who could make him feel anything beyond duty was dangerous, especially now. He had just become laird of Clan Fraser whether he wanted the title or not, and lairds did not have the luxury of attachment. His mother had died bringing him into the world. He never forgot that cost.

And now the Crown expected him to bind some Highland lass to that same fate.

He flexed his hands, willing the tension from his shoulders. The council chamber awaited. So did Lilias and whatever the clan elders decided her future should be.

And his future did as well, whether he was prepared for it or not.

The doors to the hall opened. Torcall Fraser entered, his expression carefully neutral. Ewan’s cousin had arrived at the castle only two days prior, citing family obligation. Now he approached with the measured steps of a man assessing new terrain.

“A terrible day,” Torcall said quietly. “The clan grieves.”

“Aye.” Ailean studied his cousin’s face. The grief in Torcall’s voice was perfectly pitched. Not too much, not too little. The kind of grief a man performed. Ailean knew well that he had been waiting for exactly this outcome. “And the clan endures.”

“Of course.” Torcall’s gaze swept the empty hall. It lingered on the laird’s chair at the head of the table a fraction too long. “The Council is gathering. They’ll want decisions made quickly.”

“Then we shouldnae keep them waiting.”

Each step toward the council chamber felt like walking toward an anvil he couldn’t dodge. Somewhere in this castle, Lilias was preparing to learn what came next. He wondered if she’d fight the Council’s inevitable decision or accept it with the same steady composure she’d shown in the stairwell.

He suspected she would accept it. He suspected that steadiness was not something she put on for difficult moments but something she was made of. That thought sat uneasily in his chest, closer to admiration than he had any right to feel.

Either way, soon everything would change.

***

The council chamber felt small.

Lilias sat in a high-backed chair against the stone wall, her father beside her, while the Fraser elders arranged themselves around the long table. Firelight threw shadows across weathered faces and glinted off the silver brooches that marked clan rank. The air smelled of peat smoke and tension.

Less than two hours had passed since Laird Ewan Fraser had collapsed at the altar. His body now lay in the chapel, and the intruder sat chained in the cells below, refusing to speak. The wedding guests had been questioned and dismissed, leaving only those whose voices would shape what came next.

Ailean Fraser sat at the head of the table in his brother’s chair.

He looked wrong there. Too young, too unprepared, despite the breadth of his shoulders and the careful control in his expression. His blond hair was tied back now, revealing the sharp line of his jaw and the exhaustion already settling into the skin and the deep sorrow in his eyes. He wore his brother’s formal plaid over his leathers, and the combination made him look like a man caught between two identities.

Lilias couldn’t stop watching him. She had come here to marry Ewan. She had prepared herself for Ewan, steeled for Ewan’s cold eyes and rigid authority. She had not prepared for this man, for the way he carried grief like a wound he refused to show, for the way his gaze found hers across the chamber as though she was the only fixed point in a room that was spinning. She told herself it was political necessity, but that didn’t explain the heat that coiled low in her belly when his gaze flickered to hers across the chamber.

“The succession is clear,” said Gordon, the eldest of the council. His voice carried the weight of five decades serving Clan Fraser. “With Laird Ewan fallen, leadership passes tae his braither. Ailean Fraser is laird by blood and law.”

Murmurs of agreement circled the table. Ailean said nothing, his face unreadable.

“However,” Gordon continued, “the Crown’s decree remains in force. The Fraser laird must be lawfully married within the year, or face royal intervention. With recent events…” He gestured vaguely toward where Ewan’s body lay. “We appear vulnerable. Weak. Delaying the alliance could invite scrutiny we cannae afford.”

“The marriage agreement was made in good faith,” Lilias’s father said. His voice was measured but firm. “Between our families. Me daughter came here tae marry Laird Fraser, and that remains true. That he’s now laird instead of his older maintains the alliance, it daesnae dissolve it.”

Lilias felt every gaze in the chamber turn toward her. She kept her spine straight and her hands folded in her lap, refusing to show the anxiety churning through her chest.

Torcall Fraser spoke from his position halfway down the table. His voice was smooth, carefully measured, the voice of a man who had been rehearsing this moment. “With respect, the situation has changed considerably. Ailean has never led. Never commanded. The clan requires steady hands right now, experienced hands, not a second son thrust into a chair he was never groomed fer.” He paused, letting the silence do its work. “There are those at this table with stronger claim tae Fraser leadership. Those who have served this clan fer years without recognition. Perhaps we should consider all its options before rushing intae decisions that cannae be undone.”

The air in the chamber shifted. Several of the elders exchanged glances.

Ailean’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes went very still.

“How has it changed?” Her father’s tone sharpened. “Me daughter is the same woman who entered this castle three days ago. The Crown’s decree is the same. Only the name of the laird has changed, and that makes the marriage more necessary, nae less.”

“More necessary,” Torcall agreed smoothly, “fer a laird who can actually hold this clan taegether. Ailean is untested. Grief-struck. And ye’d have him marry a Grant girl he’s known fer hours on the same day his braither’s dead body is still warm? What message daes that send? That the Frasers are desperate. That anyone with enough patience need only wait us out.”

“Nay one’s forcing anyone,” Ailean interrupted. His voice cut through the debate with quiet authority. “The choice is mine tae make, aye?”

Silence fell. Every eye turned to the new laird.

He didn’t look at Torcall. He looked at Lilias.

For a long moment they simply looked at each other across the chamber, and she felt the weight of everything unsaid between them. He’d saved her life in that stairwell. She’d seen the controlled violence in him, the barely leashed intensity that made her pulse quicken despite her better judgment. She had come here expecting a cold political arrangement with a man she would learn to endure. She had not expected this, whatever this was, this pull toward a man she had no right to want.

“The clan’s position comes first,” Ailean said finally. “We’re vulnerable now that me braither is dead. The Crown will be watching tae see how we respond. If we delay the marriage, we show weakness. If we proceed…” He paused. “We show stability. Continuity.”

“Continuity,” Torcall repeated, his tone edged now, the smoothness wearing thin. “Or desperation dressed up as strength. Ye’ve been laird fer two hours, Ailean. Ye dinnae even ken if the clan will follow ye.”

“They’ll follow me,” Ailean said quietly. “Because I willnae give them reason nae tae.”

“And the lass?” Gordon turned to Lilias. “Ye came here tae marry Laird Ewan and secure the alliance. He is gone. The man before ye is untested, newly made, and stepping into chaos. Are ye prepared fer what marrying him now actually means?”

Every face turned toward her again. Lilias felt her father’s tension like a physical presence beside her, felt the weight of expectation pressing down from all sides. This was the moment that would define her future, and she had perhaps thirty seconds to decide it.

She thought of the wedding that had ended in death. Of the blade at her throat and Ailean’s cold fury as he’d freed her. Of the way he had put himself between her and danger without hesitation, as though it had not even been a choice. Of the way his eyes tracked her across rooms as though she unsettled him in ways he didn’t know how to handle.

Of the fact that her wedding day had included a death, an assassination attempt, and a blade to her throat, and somehow marriage was still the expected outcome.

She should have been terrified. She was terrified. But beneath the fear was something else, something she didn’t have a name for yet, something that had started in a stairwell when a man she barely knew had looked at her captor with cold, absolute certainty and moved.

“I came here tae fulfill an agreement,” she said clearly. “Between me family and Clan Fraser. That agreement was made fer political reasons, nae romantic ones. If the clan needs this marriage tae proceed, then I’ll honor it.” She met Ailean’s gaze directly. “I came here tae marry the Fraser laird. He is the Fraser laird.”

She saw it register on his face, that brief unguarded moment before the laird’s mask settled back into place.

“Practical,” Torcall observed. The word landed like a dismissal. “A minor landholder’s daughter, willing tae take whatever’s offered. How fortunate fer us all.”

The insult was quiet enough to deny. Lilias felt it land anyway.

“It’s more than many marriages start with,” she replied, keeping her voice even despite the heat rising in her chest. “And I suspect Laird Ailean is equally practical.”

“Practical,” Ailean repeated. The corner of his mouth twitched. His eyes held hers for a moment longer than necessary. “Aye, that’s one word fer it.”

“Then we’re agreed?” Gordon looked between them. “The marriage proceeds as planned?”

“As planned?” Lilias’s father frowned. “Surely we should wait until—”

“Until what?” Gordon interrupted. “Until word spreads that our laird died and we abandoned the alliance? Until the Crown questions our stability? Nay. The ceremony was meant tae happen today. We finish what we started, show the clan we’re still standing. We turn tragedy intae transition.”

“Taeday,” Lilias echoed. The word sat strangely in her mouth. “Ye want us tae continue with the wedding today.”

“Unless ye object?” Ailean asked. His gaze was steady on hers, and she couldn’t read what lay behind it. “After what ye’ve been through, I’d understand if ye needed time.”

It was the first time anyone had thought about her needs. Not what the clan needed, not what the alliance required. What she needed. The unexpected gentleness of it caught her somewhere behind her ribs.

“Time willnae change the necessity.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “If we’re daeing this, we might as well finish it.”

***

The sun had set by the time they reconvened in the Great Hall.

Ailean stood before the priest for the second time that day and tried not to think about the fact that his brother’s dead body lay fifty feet away in the chapel.

The crowd was smaller, limited to clan elders and essential witnesses. The candles had been relit but the flower arrangements removed, leaving the space feeling stark. Functional. Like a transaction rather than a ceremony. Which, he reminded himself, was exactly what this was.

Lilias entered from the side door, still wearing the dress she’d worn that morning. Her dark hair had been repinned, and someone had given her a fresh plaid in Fraser colors to drape over her shoulders. The Fraser colors looked right on her, and he wished that observation hadn’t occurred to him.

She walked toward him with her spine straight and her chin lifted, looking far more composed than he felt. He watched her cross the hall and thought about the stairwell, about the blade at her throat and the way she had gripped the intruder’s forearm with both hands and forced herself to breathe. She hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t collapsed. She had assessed the situation with the same quiet steadiness she brought to the council meeting.

She was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with softness or delicacy, the kind of beauty that came with steel and sharp edges. She looked like the sort of woman who could survive Highland winters and navigate clan politics without breaking.

That was the most dangerous thing about her.

Attachment was dangerous. He knew that. After what happened to his mother, he had spent years making sure no woman would ever bear that risk for him.

And now here she was, walking toward him in Fraser colors, and he couldn’t stop watching her.

She reached his side and turned to face the priest. For a moment they stood in silence, two people bound by necessity rather than choice.

“Ready?” he asked quietly.

“Are ye?” She glanced at him sidelong, something sharp flashing in her expression that might have been challenge or dark humor.

“Nae remotely.”

“Good. That makes two of us.”

He almost smiled. He hadn’t expected that either.

The priest cleared his throat and began the ceremony. The words were the same ones Ailean had heard that morning, but they felt heavier now, more real, weighted with everything the day had cost. When it came time for vows, Ailean spoke them clearly, watching Lilias’s face for any sign of hesitation.

She showed none.

Her voice was steady as she repeated the words that bound her to him, to this clan, to a future that was chosen for them. He found himself listening to every word she spoke, searching for reluctance, for resentment, for the performance of a woman doing what she must. He didn’t find it. What he found unsettled him more.

When the priest pronounced them married, Ailean felt the weight of it settle over him like chains.

He was laird of Clan Fraser. He had a wife. His brother was dead.

Everything had changed in the span of a single day.

“Ye may kiss the bride,” the priest said.

Ailean turned to Lilias. She looked up at him with those sharp eyes, her expression carefully neutral. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands gripped her skirts. She was braver than he deserved, this woman who had walked into a stranger’s castle and been handed chaos and grief and a blade at her throat and had simply squared her shoulders and kept going.

“We dinnae have tae,” he said quietly. “Fer appearances, aye, but—”

She rose onto her toes and pressed her lips to his.

The kiss was brief. Chaste. Witnessed by a room full of clan elders who expected nothing more. But Ailean felt it everywhere, felt the warmth of her mouth and the way she steadied herself with one hand against his chest, felt the slight catch of her breath before she pulled back. He stood very still, afraid that if he moved he would do something profoundly unwise.

“There,” she said. Her voice was composed. Her cheeks were not. “Now it’s official.”

He couldn’t quite manage a response.

The witnesses applauded politely as Gordon approached with congratulations, while Torcall watched from the back of the hall with the expression of a man recalculating. Lilias’s father embraced his daughter, whispering something Ailean couldn’t hear.

And through it all, Ailean kept thinking about that kiss, about the way Lilias had taken control of a moment he’d been prepared to let slip past, about the fact that she was his wife now, bound to him by law and witnesses.

About the fact he was in a great deal of trouble.

Lilias turned back to him as the witnesses began to disperse. “So,” she said. “What happens now, husband?”

The word sent an unexpected jolt through him. “Now we figure out how tae survive this taegether, wife.”

She studied his face for a long moment. Then, impossibly, she smiled. “Well. At least it willnae be boring.”

He watched her turn away to speak with her father and thought that boring was the very last word he would ever use for her.

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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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Chapter One

1667, MacAlpin Castle

“Thank God ye are here!” Aileen MacAlpin exclaimed, her hands already closing around her sister’s gloved ones before Rhona had fully descended from the carriage.

Rhona laughed softly, still breathless from the journey. “Ye sound as though ye feared I might vanish from one mile tae the next.”

“I feared many things,” Aileen replied, her tone composed in the way it always became when fear threatened to show itself. Her gaze dropped at once to Rhona’s belly, unmistakable beneath her cloak. “Ye should nae have come so far, nae in yer condition.”

“Condition?” Rhona teased, squeezing her sister’s hands back. “Ye talk as if I’m ill, nae with child. Dinnae fash, the bairn is stubborn… clearly a MacAlpin. Besides, I couldnae leave ye tae fret yerself intae a shadow.”

Aileen smiled, though it wavered. “Faither will be glad of that news, at least.”

Rhona’s expression softened. “Then take me tae him.”

They moved through the courtyard together.

“He worsened three nights ago,” Aileen said quietly as they climbed the stairs. “The fever spiked. He would nae stay abed.”

“Of course he would nae,” Rhona muttered. “Stubborn tae the end.”

That was all it took. Rhona said nothing more until they reached the chamber. The air inside was heavy with herbs and stale warmth. Alistair MacAlpin lay motionless against the pillows, his once-commanding presence reduced to shallow breaths and greyed skin. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of footsteps.

“Rhona?” he murmured in disbelief.

“I am here,” she said, already at his side. “And ye are going tae lie still, whether ye wish it or nae.”

Aileen hovered near the foot of the bed, watching as Rhona worked. Her sister’s hands were steady and practiced as she checked his pulse, pressing fingers to brow and throat.

“How long has the cough lasted?” Rhona asked with the practiced calm of a healer.

“Several days,” Aileen answered at once. She had not left his side save to fetch water or herbs. “The fever worsened last night.”

“And the markings?”

Aileen hesitated. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the blanket, as though it might bite her if she pulled it back. At last, she lifted the wool slowly and almost reverently. Ash-grey streaks marred Alistair’s skin, branching faintly across his chest and arms like the ghost of burned veins. The sight stole the breath from the room. Rhona stilled. The pause was brief but devastating.

“Nay,” Aileen said at once, shaking her head, as if denial might erase what lay before them. “It cannae be.”

Rhona’s jaw tightened. “How many others are ill?”

“Five in the lower glen,” Aileen said quietly. “More along the river.” Her gaze dropped to her father’s hand, which rested thin and mottled against the blanket. “He went tae them all.”

Rhona exhaled slowly, as though steadying herself against a storm only she could see. “Ye ken as well as I dae that this is Ash-Fever.”

The word seemed to drain the room of what little warmth remained. Aileen had suspected it. She had feared it, but so far, she had still been in possession of a tiny shred of hope. Now, Rhona had stolen that from her.

“There must be something,” Aileen said, stepping forward. “A tincture, a purge, something ye have nae yet tried—”

“Aileen.” Rhona’s voice cut her off, gentled by sorrow. “Ash-Fever has ravaged these lands before. Ye ken there is naething I can dae here.” Rhona glanced around the chamber, at the humble stores, the worn tools, the limits of what love alone could mend. “Nae with what we have. The only cure lies beyond our borders.”

Understanding crept in slowly, dread blooming with it. “Where?”

“Clan MacDougall.”

The name landed between them like a door slammed shut, echoing long after the sound should have faded.

“They will never give it,” Aileen said faintly.

“Nay,” Rhona agreed. “They guard that knowledge fiercely. And they have nae forgiven what was lost.”

Aileen looked back at the bed. She wanted to see the man who had lifted her onto his shoulders as a child so she could see over the crowd at the midsummer fair. But that man was gone. In his place was a shadow that had bled himself thin for his people and never once questioned what it would cost him.

“He caught it helping them,” she whispered tenderly, brushing a grey strand of hair from his clammy brow. “He would nae turn away.”

“I ken,” Rhona said softly. “That is why this is cruel.”

Silence stretched. Aileen could hear that silent voice deep down, urging her toward the truth she had already accepted. Then, she straightened, smoothing her hands against her skirts as she always did when emotion threatened to overtake her.

“Then I will go,” she said.

“Nay,” Rhona’s response was as fierce as it was immediate. “Absolutely nae.”

“There is nay one else,” Aileen replied. “Ye cannae travel again, nae like this.” Her gaze befell Rhona’s belly, round with both life and hope. Then, her eyes found their father. “And Faither…” Her voice faltered, but she mastered it. “Faither will nae survive the month without help.”

“The MacDougalls hate us,” Rhona reminded her sharply. “They always have. Ye ken what they will think if a MacAlpin rides intae their lands alone.”

“I ken,” Aileen nodded. Her sister’s fear was real. However, it was still smaller than Aileen’s resolve. “But that daesnae change what must be done.”

Rhona released her arm only to press a hand to her own belly, breathing carefully. “This is nae sacrifice… it is folly.”

Aileen softened at that, reaching out to steady her sister. “Ye came when we needed ye. Ye gave us truth when comfort would have been easier. I am grateful tae ye fer that.”

Rhona’s eyes shone. “Dinnae thank me as though ye are saying farewell.”

“I am nae,” Aileen said gently. “Only acknowledging what ye have already given.”

Aileen turned away from her sister, only to notice that their father had already fallen asleep. He was becoming so weak that even remaining awake for longer periods of time took a toll on him.

“When must ye return?” Aileen inquired of her sister.

“Ian will want me back within the next couple of days. The midwife is already waiting. I cannae linger.”

“I thought as much.” Aileen offered a small, reassuring smile. “Then I will ride swiftly.”

Rhona stared at her. “Ye mean tae leave at once.”

“Aye.”

“With nay escort?”

Aileen hesitated, then inclined her head. “Speed is safer than banners.”

Rhona’s breath hitched. “Ye have always been the quiet one,” she said softly. “I fear we mistook that fer fragility.”

Aileen squeezed her hand. “I only learned early how tae endure.”

Rhona pulled her into a careful embrace, holding her as tightly as she dared. “Come back tae us,” she whispered. “Dinnae let their hatred swallow ye.”

Aileen rested her cheek briefly against her sister’s shoulder. “I will come back,” she promised. “With the cure.”

When they parted, Rhona wiped at her eyes and straightened. “Then go,” she urged. “Before I lose the courage tae let ye.”

Aileen nodded once, and gently kissed her father’s forehead, lingering just enough to memorize the feel of his skin beneath her lips. Then, without another word, she walked out, toward the dangerous and unforgiving path ahead as if it had already been chosen long ago.

***

“Hold!”

The word carried across the hillside before Aileen ever saw the men who spoke it. She reined in sharply, her horse snorting beneath her as three riders emerged from the rise ahead, already positioned to block the narrow track. They wore no colors, yet the land itself seemed to claim them with their dark cloaks, unforgiving eyes and bows slung within easy reach.

MacDougall scouts.

Their gazes fixed on her cloak at once.

“Well,” one of them drawled, “if that isnae a MacAlpin riding bold as daylight.”

Another snorted. “Or foolish.”

Aileen slowed her horse but did not turn it. “I seek passage,” she addressed them steadily. “And audience with yer laird.”

“With those colors?” the foremost rider replied. “Ye announce yerself like a challenge.”

“They are all I have,” Aileen spoke boldly. “And I dinnae hide.”

“Ye should,” the second scout snarled. “MacAlpin blood is nae welcome here.”

“I come in peace.”

“That has never mattered between our clans.”

The third rider urged his horse forward until their knees nearly touched. “Turn back… now.”

Aileen looked beyond them, past the narrow track that wound deeper into hostile ground, toward the unseen castle she could feel pulling at her like a tide. Three days of riding had stripped her down to bone-deep exhaustion, yet her certainty remained undaunted.

“I cannae,” she exhaled.

The moment snapped tight.

The nearest scout reached for her bridle. “Then ye will be turned—”

Aileen acted momentarily, kicking hard and wrenching the reins. Her horse lunged forward, her shoulder clipping the scout as she burst through the narrow space between them.

“After her!” One of them shouted. She didn’t turn around to find out which one.

Hooves thundered instantly behind her. She drove her mount downhill, feeling the branches clawing at her sleeves. The blue of her cloak was flashing like a banner she could no longer shed. Arrows sang past her, one close enough to tear wool from her hem. She ducked. Her breath burned in her throat as the scouts gained ground.

“Stop!” the same scout shouted again. “Ye will nae reach the castle alive!”

She did not slow. The land rose and broke beneath her, stone and root conspiring against her flight. An arrow struck the ground ahead, splintering rock and forcing her to swerve. Her horse stumbled, screamed… and fell.

Aileen was thrown clear, hitting the earth hard enough to drive the breath from her lungs. For a moment the world narrowed to pain and ringing silence. Then she heard it again, that thunder of hooves and the sharp shouts of men closing fast. She forced herself upright, feeling her knee screaming in protest, and ran.

Another arrow flew. It was evidently not meant to hit her, but it was close enough that her fallen horse shrieked. The scouts were not trying to kill her now. They were driving her, herding her like frightened game toward the open slope ahead.

The castle loomed into view, its dark stone walls rising from the land like a judgment already passed.

“Stop!” someone shouted behind her. “Ye have naewhere left tae run!”

Her lungs burned. Her skirts tangled around her legs as she ran, tearing free of branches, stumbling but then catching herself with scraped palms slick with blood. The gates were closer now… agonizingly close. It only made her run even faster.

Another arrow struck stone beside her. She screamed, half in fury and half in fear, but she pushed on. Her heart was pounding so violently she thought it might tear free of her chest.

Then, the great doors filled her vision.

“Open!” she cried, slamming her fists against the wood. “Please, open!”

She pounded again, and again, each blow sending pain shooting up her arms. Her voice cracked as she shouted for mercy, for aid, for anyone who would hear her over the thunder of pursuit.

Rough hands seized her from behind. Aileen fought with everything she had. She was kicking, twisting and striking blindly wherever she could, but exhaustion robbed her of her strength. One man wrenched her arms behind her back while another forced her to her knees. Rope bit into her wrists as they bound her hands tight.

“Enough,” one of them growled. “Ye’ve made enough trouble.”

The words burned hotter than the rope biting into her wrists. Shame flared at how easily they had brought her down, how quickly strength and resolve had been stripped away and replaced with dirt and submission. She had not imagined herself kneeling like that, breathless and bound, with her defiance reduced to torn skirts and shaking limbs.

She dragged in a ragged breath, then bowed her head as her hair fell loose around her face, hiding her expression from their satisfaction. Her chest ached and her lungs burned. But beneath it all, was the thought of her father, his stubborn kindness and the way he had gone from door to door in the villages, refusing rest and refusing fear, because someone had to stay when others fled.

She would kneel a thousand times if it meant saving him.

Then, suddenly, the gate groaned. The sound cut through her like a blade. Heavy iron bolts slid free, one by one, echoing across the courtyard with the weight of final judgment. The great doors opened inward, just wide enough for firelight to spill across the stone and gild the edges of the men restraining her.

Everyone went still. The grip in her arms tightened.

Aileen lifted her head. She did not know what waited beyond those doors, whether it was mercy, fury, or something worse, but she knew with aching clarity that her flight was over.

And whatever came next, she would face it… for her father, if for nothing else.

Chapter Two

A man stepped through the main gate with such calm, it made it seem that the chaos beyond the walls did not dare follow him inside. His presence did not command attention so much as settle it. His storm-grey eyes took in the scene in a single sweep: the fallen horse in the distance, the tense scouts and the woman on her knees with her hands bound.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

He did not raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark brown hair worn long and loose, stirred faintly by the night air. Torchlight caught the hard planes of his face and the old scars that traced his forearms where his sleeves were pushed back. Aileen lifted her head, her heart stuttering at the weight of his attention. She had imagined many things, such as fury and contempt. She had also expected cruelty… anything but the measured calm that felt far more dangerous than anger.

Against all common sense, she had to admit that he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. She didn’t even need him to smile to be absolutely certain of that. The fact that he was the enemy somehow only made him even more titillating.

Focus, Aileeen.

“She is an intruder,” one of the soldiers said quickly. “A MacAlpin.”

The man’s jaw tightened at once.

“She crossed the border in their colors,” another added. “Refused tae turn back and fled when ordered. We chased her from the hills.”

Aileen forced herself to straighten despite the rope cutting into her wrists. “I didnae come in hostility,” she tried to explain. “I came diplomatically. I asked fer an audience.”

The word earned a scoff from one of the men, but the man’s gaze had already snapped back to her.

“A MacAlpin rides intae MacDougall lands uninvited,” he said, “and calls it diplomacy?”

“I am Aileen MacAlpin,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Daughter of Laird Alistair MacAlpin. And I came tae speak tae yer laird, nae tae his scouts.”

At the sound of the name, something sharp flashed across his features. It was anger as ancient as the air itself. The air seemed to tighten around him.

“MacAlpin,” he repeated, as though tasting something bitter.

A murmur rippled through the gathered men. Yet his gaze dropped again to the rope biting into her wrists, to the dirt streaking her skirts, because she had been forced to kneel a moment ago.

His expression darkened further as he addressed the men.

“So, ye chased her tae the gates,” he said slowly. “And shot arrows at her horse.”

“She wouldnae stop,” a scout said. “She—”

“Enough.” The word snapped like a lash.

The men fell silent. And that was when Aileen realized that she had been speaking to the Laird Brodie MacDougall himself.

He took a step closer, his presence filling the space between them. Aileen felt the heat of his anger now, not only at her name, but at the way she had been brought before him.

“She is me responsibility once she reaches these walls,” he told everyone. “And ye dragged her in like a wild animal.”

“Me laird—”

“Untie her.”

The command was quiet, but decisive. Aileen’s breath caught as the rope was cut away. Her hands fell to her lap, numb and shaking, but she did not look down. She kept her eyes on him, on the man who had corrected his own men not out of kindness, but because order mattered.

“Come,” he said.

The word, however, was not an invitation. He turned without waiting, his long strides carrying him back through the open doors. Aileen followed him despite the protest of her knee, as guards fell in behind them at a respectful distance.

Aileen felt the weight of every eye upon her as she crossed the threshold. Even the servants paused mid-step. Their whispers were trailing in her wake like smoke. She was acutely aware of her torn skirts, the dirt on her hands, the MacAlpin blue still draped over her shoulders like an accusation. She kept her chin lifted nonetheless, moving forward because stopping would have been worse.

The castle was vast, older than it first appeared from the outside. High stone arches stretched overhead, their carvings worn soft by centuries of hands and smoke. Banners hung from the walls in MacDougall colors, once rich, now faded at the edges. The floors bore deep grooves where generations of boots had passed, and here and there the stone was cracked, patched not with care but necessity.

It was grand, but somehow tired. Wealth had once lived here. Strength still did. But strain lay beneath it all, unmistakable to someone who had grown up watching decline wear quiet grooves into familiar halls.

When they reached his study, the guards halted, and the door closed behind her with a sound that echoed far too loudly in the stillness.

Laird MacDougall faced her again, with his arms crossed over his chest. Up close, he was even more imposing. And even more handsome. Aileen bit her lip to focus on anything else but that.

“Now, ye may tell me,” he started slowly, “what a MacAlpin is daeing on me land and why ye thought it wise tae come alone.”

Aileen did her best to will the tremor from her voice. “I came because I had nay other choice.”

He frowned. “That is nae an answer.”

“Me faither is dying,” she said simply. “Laird Alistair MacAlpin.”

His expression did not soften. Not that she expected it to.

“He caught Ash-Fever while helping our villagers,” she continued. “He wouldnae turn away from them. The sickness has spread, and there is nay cure in our lands.”

He didn’t say anything to that, so she continued. “Ye ken where the remedy can be found, and so dae I.”

He gritted his teeth silently.

“And ye expect it freely.”

“I expect naething,” she corrected him. “I ask.”

Laird MacDougall let out a short, incredulous laugh. “And ye ask as though I owe it tae ye.”

“I ask because lives depend on it.”

“And what,” he asked casually, “dae ye offer in return, tae me, yer faither’s enemy?”

The question landed with deliberate weight. She should have known. Now that she did, the only thing she could offer was a need for a need, in hopes that hers would be the less desperate one.

“What is it ye require?” she asked cautiously.

He moved to the table, resting his palms against the wood. “MacAlpin influence with the king, fer one. Beneficial alliances, protection in council chambers where me name carries little favor.” His eyes flicked back to her. “Coin… fighters… resources.”

She felt as if he were discussing the weather.

Aileen frowned. “I thought ye were wealthy.”

“We are… threatened,” he corrected. “Clan Campbell tightens its grip each year. They took MacIver without drawing a blade. Lamont followed soon after.” His voice darkened. “They absorb, they starve, and they call it law.”

She felt a chill. “And ye believe that ye are next.”

“I ken we are,” he confirmed. “I believe alliances shift power and I will nae see me clan swallowed whole.”

“I can offer ye a political alliance,” Aileen said quickly. “MacAlpin support in both Council and in arms. I’m sure that me faither would—”

The sound of his laughter cut her off. It was sharper this time.

“Ye are offering me a political alliance?” He shook his head as he spoke. “Those are easily broken with ink and excuses. I would never trust a MacAlpin oath.”

The words struck harder than she expected. “Ye dinnae ken me.”

“I ken yer name,” he said flatly. “And I ken yer clan’s history.”

Aileen’s brows knit. “What history?”

His gaze hardened into something old. Yet it failed to make him any less handsome.

“Enough tae ken that MacAlpin promises are nae worth the breath used tae speak them.”

She stared at him, feeling unsettled. “I dinnae understand.”

“Nay,” he said quietly. “Ye would nae.”

He straightened, allowing the weight of his authority to settle like stone between them, as if she needed a reminder where she was.

“Ye ask me tae weaken me position fer a rival clan that has already proven it will choose its own survival over mercy.”

Aileen’s chest tightened, and now, there was unease blooming where certainty had once nestled. “If ye ken anything of me at all,” she said carefully, “then ye ken I wouldnae be here if there were any other way.”

He was silent for a moment, his storm-grey eyes traversing every inch of her face, as if he were still trying to decide whether that conversation was worth his time.

Aileen held his gaze, though her pulse thudded painfully in her ears. She had known that moment would come, the turning of the blade and the price named aloud.

“Ye ken me name,” she told him carefully. “And ye said ye ken me name’s past. Then tell me, is there anything I can offer ye in exchange fer the cure?”

He did not answer at once. His eyes were on her at every single moment, refusing to look away. Time stretched thin until he finally spoke.

“Aye,” he nodded. “I ken yer name. And that is precisely why there is only one way fer us both tae get what we want.”

Hope stirred despite her caution. “What way?”

“Marriage,” he said plainly.

The word struck her like a physical blow. For a heartbeat, she could not breathe. It was as though hands had closed around her throat, squeezing the air from her lungs while the room tilted beneath her feet.

Marriage. Here. Like this. As though me life were a coin passed across a table.

She found her voice at last, brittle with disbelief. “Have ye utterly lost yer mind?”

His grin widened, utterly unrepentant. “I am nae the one who rode alone intae enemy territory and made demands.”

“That is nae the same,” she shot back. “Ye speak of binding me life tae yers as though it were a treaty clause.”

“It is a treaty,” he reminded her. “One that cannae be dissolved with ink or excuses. Me name becomes yers. Yer king’s favor follows ye. MacAlpin influence becomes MacDougall protection.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. “Ye would cage us both tae secure yer borders?”

“I would bind our clans,” he corrected. “And ensure that neither of us can betray the other without cost.”

Her heart pounded with fury. “Ye would truly force me intae this?”

That was the moment when she no longer saw the merciful man who had treated her with respect in front of his guards, but rather a dangerous laird who would do anything to protect those under his care.

“Force?” he repeated softly. “Nay. I offer ye a choice.”

“A choice between me faither’s life and me freedom,” she said bitterly.

“A choice between reality and sentiment,” he countered. “Ye came here kenning there would be a price. Dinnae pretend surprise when it is one ye dinnae wish tae pay.”

Aileen swallowed, her throat aching. She had crossed mountains and hatred and fear, but she had not imagined that… marriage to a man who despised her name, to a clan that hated her blood.

Anger and resolve warred fiercely within her. “I willnae trade meself like coin,” she snarled.

He didn’t seem the least bit concerned as he replied. “Then ye may leave. I promise ye safe passage back home.”

Aileen understood with sickening clarity that she had reached the most dangerous part of her journey, which was not the chase, nor the arrows, nor the gates. It was that moment where love and sacrifice were being weighed against the last thing she had ever believed truly hers.

Her vision blurred not from weakness, she told herself fiercely, but from the sudden, violent collision of hope and despair. Anger surged first, followed by the knowledge that she was powerless.

But she would not cry, not in front of him.

Her throat burned as she swallowed, her nails biting into her palms as she forced the tears back through sheer will. She had learned that skill early, how to make herself small and how to bear unbearable things without asking to be seen.

But at that moment, it hurt differently. Its cost was her father’s life, weighed against her own.

“There will be nay marriage between us,” Aileen snarled angrily. “Nae in this lifetime.”

His eyes never left hers. “Then, I wish ye strength. Fer hope alone has never saved any of us.”

“I will find another way,” she said, though she did not know how. The words were thin, but they were all she had. “There is always another way.”

He did not laugh this time. She turned before he could reply, before the tears she was fighting so hard to restrain betrayed her. Each step toward the door felt heavier than the last. Her hand closed around the latch.

Her hand closed around the latch.

“Aileen MacAlpin,” he called out her name.

She paused but did not turn.

“Hope,” he added thoughtfully, “is a dangerous thing tae wager against reality.”

Her shoulders stiffened.

“Then it is well,” she told him without turning to face him, “that hope has carried me farther than fear ever could.”

Fury carried her forward like wind at her back as she slammed his door shut. If this was how he ruled, through fear and leverage, then she would not kneel to it.

There would be another way to save her father. And if there was not, she would make one.

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Best selling books of Lyla

★★★★★ 102 ratings

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.

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★★★★★ 194 ratings

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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Chapter One

1647, Fraser Hidden Stronghold

The bowl slipped from Elena’s trembling fingers, crashing against the stone floor with a sound that barely registered above the roar of men’s laughter.

“Clumsy wench,” one of the slavers barked, his meaty hand shoving her hard enough that she stumbled against the rough-hewn table. “Clean it up.”

Elena dropped to her knees without a word, her chains clinking as she gathered the shards. Ten years. Ten years of serving these monsters their ale and their food, of keeping her head down and her mouth shut, of surviving one more day in the Vulture’s hidden stronghold.

The thought of Alistair Fraser—the man who had stolen her name, her life, everything—made her stomach clench, but at least tonight he was absent. No one had seen him for weeks now, and his absence had made the other slavers nervous, their cruelty sharper.

She worked quickly, her movements practiced. The great hall reeked of unwashed bodies and stale drink, the fire in the hearth casting dancing shadows across faces she’d learned to hate. Her wrists bore the permanent marks of iron, her hair—once carefully tended—now hung in a crude, uneven cut that she’d managed herself with a stolen blade.

The scars on her wrists caught the firelight as she moved, raised lines of damaged flesh that would never fade. She’d stopped caring about them years ago. Vanity was another luxury taken from her, along with her surname, her freedom, and any illusion that the world was just.

“More ale!” someone shouted, and Elena rose, moving toward the barrels with the same careful invisibility she’d perfected over the years.

She’d learned to make herself small, unremarkable. To move through rooms like a shadow, to anticipate needs before they were voiced, to never, ever draw unnecessary attention. The Vulture’s favorite, they called her, though the title made her skin crawl. It didn’t mean what the other slaves thought it meant. It meant he watched her more closely. It meant she had to be more careful.

As she poured ale into a filthy tankard, her mind drifted to the children locked in the dungeon below. Three new ones had arrived last week, terrified and crying. Elena had done what she could to comfort them, to teach them the rules of survival in that place, but God, she was so tired of watching innocence die in small, brutal increments.

She carried the tankard to one of the slavers, keeping her eyes downcast as she set it before him.

“The Vulture’s been gone a long time,” he said, his breath reeking of drink. “Maybe it’s time we stopped treating his favorites so special, aye?”

Elena’s heart hammered against her ribs, but she kept her face carefully blank. “I dinnae ken where he is, sir.”

“Didnae ask ye that, did I?” He grabbed her wrist as the main doors burst open with a crash that splintered wood, and Elena’s heart leaped into her throat. The man released her immediately, scrambling for his weapon. Steel rang against steel as armed men flooded into the hall, their battle cries drowning out the slavers’ shouts of alarm.

For one frozen moment, Elena simply stared at the chaos erupting around her. Then her survival instincts kicked in, sharp and certain. Run. Now.

She bolted toward the servants’ entrance, her chains clinking with each desperate step.

Almost there. Just a few more steps to the narrow corridor that led to the kitchens, to the back entrance she’d memorized years ago for moments exactly like this—

Her chains snagged on a fallen chair, and Elena crashed to the floor hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. Pain exploded through her knees and palms as she hit the stone. Before she could recover, rough hands grabbed her from behind.

“Got ye,” one of the slavers snarled, yanking her backward by the chains. The iron bit into her ankles, cutting into the permanent scars there, and she bit back a cry. “Ye arenae goin’ anywhere.”

He dragged her across the stone floor, and Elena clawed at the ground, her fingernails scraping uselessly against the rock. They were surrounded by the clash of swords, the wet sound of blades finding flesh, men dying and killing in equal measure. She’d seen violence before, had learned to weather it with detachment, but this was different. This was war condensed into a single room.

Through the tangle of fighting men, she caught a glimpse of one of the attackers—and her breath caught in her throat.

Dark hair. Storm-gray eyes. The sharp line of a jaw she’d know anywhere, even though it was harder now, carved by time and grief into something almost unfamiliar.

No. It couldn’t be.

Her brother had been nineteen when she’d been taken, barely more than a boy, despite his warrior’s training. This man was nearly thirty, weathered by battle and loss, his face bearing the weight of years she hadn’t shared. The resemblance was there… God, it was there in every line of him. But it was impossible. Tristan thought her dead. Her family had given up searching years ago—or so she’d assumed after the first few years had passed with no rescue, no sign that anyone was still looking. She’d made her peace with that truth, had buried it deep where it couldn’t hurt her anymore.

She was seeing ghosts. That was all. The stress of the attack, the desperate hope that rose unbidden despite everything she’d learned about hope’s cruelty—it was making her see things that weren’t there.

Then she saw the man fighting beside him, and her thoughts scattered completely.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with black hair and sharp green eyes that blazed with controlled fury as he cut down a slaver. He moved like a predator—all coiled strength and deadly grace, every motion precise and purposeful. Even in the chaos, even with blood spraying and men dying around him, there was something almost beautiful about the way he fought. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Just cold, lethal competence.

Elena couldn’t look away. There was something magnetic about him, something that drew her eye even as the slaver dragging her cursed and yanked harder on her chains.

The green-eyed warrior dispatched another attacker, his blade catching the firelight as it arced through the air. His face was set in hard lines, his jaw tight with concentration.

The slaver hauling her chains cursed as one of the attackers came too close, and he released her to draw his weapon. Elena scrambled backward on her hands and knees, her chains grating against stone, her palms stinging where she’d scraped them raw. She tried to get back on her feet, to run again, but a different set of hands grabbed her from behind.

“Get them all below!” one of the slavers shouted. “Now! If we lose the merchandise, Fraser will have our heads!”

“Fraser’s dead, ye fool!” someone else yelled back.

Alistair couldn’t be dead. He was eternal, inevitable, the vulture who’d haunted her nightmares for a decade.

Elena didn’t have time to process it. She was hauled to her feet and shoved hard toward the dungeon entrance. She tried to resist, tried to dig her heels in, but the chains made it impossible to get proper leverage. Another shove sent her stumbling through the doorway and down the stone steps.

She tried to catch herself, but her chained ankles tangled and she fell hard, tumbling down the last few steps and landing in a heap at the bottom. Pain exploded through her shoulder and hip, and for a moment the world went white. She tasted blood where she’d bitten her tongue.

In the darkness, small voices whimpered.

“It’s all right,” Elena said, pushing herself up despite the pain radiating through her shoulder. Her eyes adjusted to the dim torchlight and she saw the huddled forms of children pressed against the far wall. “Stay quiet. Stay taegether.”

She limped over to them, her chains dragging, and gathered them close.

The youngest, a girl of perhaps six with matted blonde hair, clung to Elena’s tattered dress with white-knuckled fingers. Elena smoothed her hair with gentle motions.

“What’s happenin’?” one of the boys whispered, his voice cracking with fear. He was maybe ten, with haunted eyes that had seen far too much.

“I dinnae ken,” Elena admitted, because lying to them would be cruel. “But whatever it is, we stay here. We stay quiet. Understand?”

They nodded, pressing closer together.

Above them, the sounds of battle continued. Screams and steel and the thud of bodies hitting the floor. Elena tried not to imagine what was happening there, tried not to hope that the attackers were winning because hope was dangerous and she couldn’t afford it.

Then the sounds changed. Footsteps thundered on the stairs. Many feet.

“Away from the door,” Elena said. “Behind me. Now.”

The dungeon door exploded inward with a crash that made the children scream.

Men poured through—slavers and attackers alike, their battle spilling into the confined space like water through a broken dam. Elena pressed the children harder against the wall, making herself as small as possible while trying to shield them with her body. Her heart hammered so hard she thought it might break through her ribs.

Steel flashed in the torchlight. Blood sprayed across ancient stone, painting it darker. The metallic smell of it filled the air, mixing with sweat and fear and the acrid scent of smoke from somewhere above.

A slaver fell near her feet, his throat opened in a red smile, his eyes already glazing over. Elena didn’t look at his face. She’d learned years ago not to see them as human, because that made it harder to endure, harder to survive.

She heard a slaver’s voice, high with panic and rage. “The girl! Get the Vulture’s favorite before these bastards—”

Two of them broke away from the main fight, pushing past the attackers with desperate determination. They were coming for her specifically. Elena’s stomach dropped.

She shoved the children harder against the wall and grabbed a broken piece of wood from a shattered crate that had been in the corner. Her hands closed around it, splinters biting into her palms, and she swung it hard as the first slaver reached for her.

The wood connected with his face with a satisfying crack. He reeled back, cursing, blood streaming from his nose. “Ye little—”

But the other one grabbed her arm and twisted until she cried out, her makeshift weapon clattering to the floor. His fingers dug into her flesh.

A blade flashed in the torchlight, and suddenly the slaver holding her was falling, his grip releasing as steel burst through his chest from behind. Blood sprayed hot across Elena’s face and neck. The slaver crumpled to the ground, and Elena stumbled backward.

The man with the black hair and green eyes stood before her.

Up close, he was overwhelming. Taller than she’d realized, broad-shouldered and solid, his presence seeming to fill the entire dungeon. His sword was bloody, his chest heaving with exertion, and his face was streaked with grime and blood. His green eyes blazed with intensity.

Something in Elena’s chest tightened in a way she didn’t understand, a visceral reaction that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way he looked at her—not with pity, not with lust, but with something that looked almost like recognition.

His face was all hard angles and sharp lines, shadowed with stubble that emphasized the strong line of his jaw. His green eyes were the kind that saw everything, missed nothing. His black hair was tied back, though strands had come loose during the fighting, falling across his forehead.

He was handsome in a rough, dangerous way that made Elena’s breath catch. It wasn’t the polished beauty of noblemen she’d known in her youth, but something rawer, more real. The kind of face that had seen violence and survived it, that carried the weight of hard choices and harder consequences.

“Alistair Fraser is dead,” he said. “This is over. Ye’re free.”

Elena stared at him. Free. The word didn’t make sense. It was a concept from another life, a fantasy she’d stopped entertaining years ago. Freedom wasn’t real. It was a lie people told themselves to make the cages more bearable.

“I dinnae believe ye,” she whispered.

His green eyes softened slightly. His stance remained alert, protective. Around them, the sounds of battle were dying down. The clash of steel gave way to the moans of wounded men and sharp commands. But he didn’t look away from her.

“I ken it’s hard tae believe,” he said, and there was something in his voice, an understanding that went deeper than simple sympathy. “But it’s true, lass. Alistair Fraser is dead. We killed him weeks ago. This”—he gestured to the carnage around them without taking his eyes off her—”is just cleaning up what’s left of his operation.”

Weeks ago. The Vulture had been gone for weeks, and Elena had thought… what? That he was simply conducting business elsewhere? That he’d return with new victims, new horrors? She’d been preparing herself for his return, steeling herself for whatever fresh cruelty he’d devised.

“He’s truly dead?”

“Aye. I watched him die meself. The bastard got exactly what he deserved, and then some.”

Behind the green-eyed warrior, the sounds of battle had almost completely died away. She could hear victorious shouts now, the clash of swords giving way to the business of securing the stronghold and tending to the wounded. His men, she realized. They’d won.

“Who are ye?” Elena asked, studying him more closely. He wore no colors, no clan insignia, just practical fighting leathers and a well-worn sword belt. But there was authority in the way he carried himself, in the way other fighters moved around him with deference, seeking his approval or awaiting his commands.

“Brian Gunn,” he said, lowering his sword slightly though he kept himself positioned between her and the door, between her and any potential threat. “Second-in-command tae Laird Tristan MacRae of Jura. We’ve been hunting Fraser’s operations fer years.”

Jura.

The name hit Elena like a physical blow, stealing what little breath she’d managed to recover. Her home. The island she’d been taken from a lifetime ago. The place she’d stopped letting herself think about because remembering only made the cage smaller, the chains heavier.

“Jura,” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper.

Brian’s eyes sharpened, and she saw the moment he made the connection. “Ye’re from Jura?”

Before Elena could answer—before she could even begin to process what it meant that her brother’s second-in-command was standing in front of her—another figure appeared in the doorway.

The man she’d thought looked like Tristan stood silhouetted against the torchlight from the stairs, his sword hanging loose in his grip, his chest heaving. His storm-gray eyes swept the dungeon—cataloging the freed children, the dead slavers, the green-eyed warrior standing protectively in front of a woman he didn’t yet recognize.

Then those eyes landed on Elena, and the world stopped.

Every muscle in his body went rigid. His face drained of color, going white beneath the grime and blood. His sword fell from nerveless fingers, clattering against the stone floor with a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the sudden, terrible silence.

“It…” His voice cracked, breaking on the single syllable. “It cannae be.”

Elena’s world tilted sideways. She knew that voice. She’d heard it in her dreams for ten years, had clung to the memory of it during the worst nights, and had eventually forced herself to forget it because remembering hurt too much. She knew those eyes, even if they were set in a face that had hardened into something both familiar and strange.

He wasn’t a ghost. It wasn’t her mind playing tricks.

It was her brother.

“Elena?” Tristan MacRae, her brother, her family, the person she’d thought she’d never see again, took a stumbling step forward. His voice was raw. “Elena, is it truly ye?”

Chapter Two

“Dinnae touch me.”

The words came out sharper than Elena intended, but Tristan froze mid-step, his hand still outstretched. The hurt that flashed across his face made her chest ache, but she couldn’t let him close the distance between them. If he touched her, if he tried to embrace her like the sister he remembered, she would shatter into a thousand pieces.

“Elena, I—” His voice cracked. “I thought ye were dead. We all thought—”

“I was dead,” she said flatly. “The girl ye kenned died ten years ago.”

Tristan flinched as if she’d struck him. His hand dropped to his side, and for a long moment they simply stared at each other across the blood-stained dungeon floor—two strangers wearing the faces of family.

“We need tae go,” Brian’s rough voice cut through the tension. He hadn’t moved from his protective position between them, and Elena was grateful for it. “Now. Before any of Fraser’s men regroup.”

Tristan nodded numbly, still unable to tear his eyes from Elena. “Can ye walk?”

“Aye.” Elena straightened her spine, refusing to show weakness even though her shoulder throbbed and her legs trembled. She’d survived ten years in hell—she could manage a walk to a ship.

“What about the bairns?” She gestured to the children still huddled behind her.

“All of them come with us,” Brian said firmly. “Everyone we found. Nay one gets left behind.”

Elena turned to the children, keeping her voice calm and steady. “Come on, then. Stay close tae me. Dinnae look at the bodies. Just keep yer eyes on me back and follow where I go.”

They organized quickly, the freed captives—children and women alike—clinging to Elena’s tattered dress or staying close behind her as they moved toward the stairs. Brian led the way, his sword still drawn, while Tristan fell back to guard their rear. Elena kept herself in the middle, acutely aware of her brother’s presence behind her but unable to look at him.

The great hall above was a slaughterhouse. Bodies sprawled across the floor, blood pooling between the stones. Elena didn’t look at the faces as she guided the children through the carnage with steady hands and soft words.

When they finally emerged into the night air, Elena stopped dead.

The sky. Stars scattered across black velvet, the moon hanging full and bright. The smell of salt and sea instead of blood and fear. She’d almost forgotten what freedom tasted like.

“Elena?” Tristan’s voice was gentle, uncertain.

She ignored him, tilting her face toward the stars and breathing deeply. Behind her, the children pressed close, and she gathered them.

“The chains,” she said quietly, not looking at anyone in particular. “Can someone remove the chains?”

Brian knelt before her without a word. His movements were slow, deliberate, giving her time to pull away if she wanted. Elena held still, watching as he examined the locks on her ankles. His hands were careful, never touching her skin more than necessary.

The first chain fell away with a soft clink that sounded like salvation.

He worked the second lock, his black hair falling forward to shadow his face. Elena found herself studying him. The strong line of his jaw, the concentration in his green eyes, the way his shoulders moved beneath his fighting leathers. There was something enthralling about his quiet competence, the way he accomplished tasks without fanfare or expectation of gratitude.

The second chain fell free.

Elena stared down at her scarred ankles. Permanent bands where iron had rubbed for years. Her breathing went ragged, and for a moment the world tilted sideways.

“Thank ye,” she whispered.

Brian rose to his feet, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her stomach flutter. “It’s naething.”

But it was everything.

***

The ship rocked gently beneath Elena’s feet as they sailed away from the stronghold. She gripped the railing, watching the dark mass of land disappear into the night. Around her, freed captives huddled in small groups, wrapped in blankets. Everyone looked shell-shocked.

Elena understood the feeling. Her mind felt fractured, unable to reconcile freedom with the reality she’d known for a decade.

She kept her distance from Tristan. Her brother stood at the bow alone, his shoulders tense, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He kept glancing back at Elena, his expression a complicated mix of hope and uncertainty, but he didn’t approach.

Elena was grateful for that.

“Ye should go tae him,” Brian said, appearing at her elbow.

Elena turned to find him leaning against the railing. “I dinnae ken what tae say tae him.”

“How about ‘thank ye fer spending ten years hunting the man who took me’?” There was no judgment in his tone, just rough honesty. “Or ‘I’m alive’? That seems tae be goin’ over well with the rest of us.”

Elena’s lips twitched. “Ye have a strange sense of humor.”

“Aye, well, I’ve been told I’m nae exactly cheery company.” He paused. “He thought ye were dead, lass. Fer ten years. Give him a moment tae adjust.”

“I thought I was dead too. The girl he knew… she is dead. I’m nae her anymore.”

Brian was silent for a long moment. When she glanced at him, she found him watching her with something that looked almost like understanding.

“My cousin,” he said finally. “Maisie. She was taken by slavers eight years ago. I’ve been searching fer her ever since.” He paused, and she could see the desperate hope warring with dread in his expression. “Did ye ever… in yer time there, did ye meet a Maisie Gunn?”

Elena’s heart sank. She’d seen that hope before. It was in the faces of family members searching for lost loved ones. It always ended the same way.

“Nay,” she said softly. “I never met anyone by that name. I’m sorry.”

The light in Brian’s eyes dimmed, but he nodded stiffly. “Aye. Well. It was a long shot.”

They stood in silence, the wind whipping Elena’s short hair around her face. He looked like a man carrying the weight of the world, and she recognized that burden because she’d been carrying her own version for years.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Jura. Tristan’s lands. He and his wife have established a center there fer people like ye… Those who’ve been freed from the slavers. Ye’ll be safe there.”

Jura. Her childhood home. The thought made Elena’s stomach churn with a complicated tangle of emotions she couldn’t name.

“And ye? Where will ye go?”

“Me faither has summoned me back tae Clan Gunn. There’s trouble with our neighbors tae the north. Raiders, possibly backed by rival clans. I’m needed there.”

Elena’s chest tightened. She barely knew this man, but the thought of going to Jura without him, of facing her brother’s expectations alone…

“How long have ye been fighting slavers?” she asked, desperate to keep him talking.

“Since Maisie was taken. Tristan started his crusade after he lost ye.” He glanced at her. “Ye were the reason he started all this.”

The weight of that settled over Elena like a shroud. Her brother had spent ten years dismantling slave networks because of her. Because he’d thought her dead and wanted vengeance. And now she was alive, and what was she supposed to do with that?

“I cannae go tae Jura,” Elena said suddenly.

Brian’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“I cannae.” The words tumbled out faster now. “Dinnae ye understand? Me braither… he’s going tae expect me tae be the girl he lost. He’s going tae want me tae go back tae being a laird’s daughter, tae wear fine dresses and smile and pretend that the last ten years didnae happen.”

“Elena—”

“And I cannae be that person anymore. I dinnae even remember how. He has a wife now. He daesnae need a broken sister who’ll only remind him of his failure.”

“It wasnae his failure,” Brian said, his voice hard.

“Tell that tae the guilt I saw in his eyes.” Elena turned to face him fully, gripping the railing behind her. “Please. Let me come with ye. Tae Clan Gunn.”

Brian’s eyes widened. “That’s… lass, that’s nae possible.”

“Why nae?”

“Because yer braither would never allow it. Ye’re his family. He’s been searching fer ye fer a decade—”

“And now he’s found me. He kens I’m alive. Isnae that enough?” Elena heard the desperation in her voice but couldn’t stop it. “I dinnae want tae be locked in a castle again, even a safe one. I dinnae want tae be watched and pitied and treated like I’m made of glass.”

“So ye want tae come tae Gunn lands, where we’re preparing fer possible war?” Brian’s tone was incredulous.

“I want to go somewhere where there are nay expectations. I want tae dae something. Tae be useful. Tae matter.” Elena lifted her chin. “I can work. I can help. I’m nae useless.”

“I never said ye were. But Tristan—”

“Will say nay. I ken that.” Elena took a breath. “But maybe… maybe if ye talked tae him. Found a way tae convince him that this is what I need.”

“Ye’re asking me tae help ye run away from yer own braither?”

“I’m asking ye tae help me choose me own path fer the first time in ten years. Please, Brian. I cannae… I cannae go back tae being caged. Even if it’s a golden cage.”

Brian’s green eyes searched her face. “He’ll say nay” he warned.

“Then we’ll have tae be convincing.” Elena surprised herself with a small smile. “Ye seem like a man who’s good at getting what he wants.”

“Ye’ve known me fer all of an hour, lass. That’s quite the assessment.”

“I’ve had ten years tae learn how tae read men quickly.” The smile faded. “It’s a survival skill.”

Brian’s expression darkened. “Aye. I suppose it would be.”

They stood there as the ship cut through dark water, and Elena felt the first tiny spark of something hopeful. This man with his battle-worn face didn’t look at her with pity. He didn’t try to tell her what she needed or who she should be.

He just listened.

“I’ll try,” Brian said finally. “But I’m nae promising anything. It is a very unusual situation, bringing the unescorted sister of a laird under me protection tae me castle. If he says nay, then ye’ll accept it with grace. Understood?”

Elena nodded, though they both knew it was a lie. She’d spent ten years learning that sometimes survival meant breaking promises, even to yourself.

“Understood,” she said.

Brian pushed off from the railing. “Get some rest, lass. We’ve a long journey ahead.”

As he walked away, Elena found her gaze following him. She took in the breadth of his shoulders, the controlled power in his movements, the way he stopped to speak gently to one of the frightened children before continuing toward Tristan.

She didn’t know why she’d asked that particular man for help. Perhaps because he’d been the first to free her chains. Perhaps because he understood loss in a way her brother, now that he had found her, could not.

Or perhaps because when his green eyes had met hers, she had not seen pity.

Only recognition.

Elena turned back to the dark water, her fingers ghosting over the scars on her wrists. Across the deck, she could see Brian approaching Tristan, could see her brother’s expression shift from confusion to concern as they spoke in low voices.

She didn’t let herself hope. Hope was dangerous.

But for the first time in ten years, she let herself want something beyond simple survival.

And even that was dangerous.

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Best selling books of Lyla

★★★★★ 102 ratings

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.

Read the book

★★★★★ 194 ratings

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…

Read the book

Chapter One

1665, Glen Tarbert

The road toward the Movern coast wound like a pale thread through the hills, its turns cut into rock and peat, slick from the morning rain. The sound of hooves pressed steady against the sodden earth, a rhythm that might have been soothing if not for the weight in Lorna MacAlpin’s chest. She sat sidesaddle upon her mare, her cloak drawn tight, eyes on the mist that clung low to the glen ahead. Every breath tasted faintly of sea salt and pine resin, the air sharp enough to sting.

The hills blurred into a gray silence that left her alone with her thoughts. Each breath of cold air seemed to echo the same question she’d been afraid to ask: what did obedience mean, if it cost her everything? Her hands, gloved and steady on the reins, betrayed nothing of the tremor beneath. The road turned sharply, jolting her from thought. The mare stumbled for footing before finding her rhythm again, and Lorna caught herself against the saddle, heart quickening. The land there was narrow and uneven, and every dip or rise felt like a test of balance she could not quite master. It mirrored her mind—steady until it wasn’t, composed until the ground shifted beneath her.

It was said that obedience was a virtue. Her father had taught her that long before the crown had taken his daughters as tokens of peace. Yet as the guards led her convoy down the narrow pass toward Glen Tarbert, obedience felt less like virtue and more like surrender.

Her family’s fate had been sealed at the Highland Summit months before. Two daughters’ destinies decided for the good of the realm. Isla bound to marriage with Laird MacLaren. Lorna to God.

Lorna had stepped forward before anyone could speak her sister’s name. She had accepted the decree with bowed head and steady voice, not because she wished it, but because her sister was too young, too bright, too breakable to be buried in stone walls and silence. Refusing would shame her father, imperil the clan, unravel everything they had fought to rebuild.

So Lorna had offered herself quietly, even as her heart whispered no. Even as she felt the first thread of her life sever cleanly beneath the choice.

Rain drummed softly against her hood. She shifted in the saddle, glancing toward Alan, the captain of her guard, who rode a few paces ahead. His expression was carved in stone, his gaze sweeping the ridges for movement. Ten men had left with her. Now there were six. The rest had fallen ill, or turned back when the roads grew treacherous. And yet Alan never faltered, never questioned. He would see her safely to the nunnery if it killed him.

“Lady Lorna,” he called over the wind. “We’ll make Glen Tarbert by midday. The ferry waits at the mouth.”

She lifted her head, her voice barely carrying above the sound of hooves. “Aye.”

Her tone was even, but her thoughts would not still. Glen Tarbert—the narrow stretch of land where Loch Sunart almost kissed the sea. Once they reached the water, a ferry would take them across to the far shore, where a small ship awaited to carry her to Iona. From there, she would be delivered to the convent, handed over like a parcel bearing the king’s seal. A few hours on the water, and her life would no longer be her own.

She tried to picture what waited for her: the whitewashed stone, the chill of dawn prayers, the soft shuffle of veiled women moving through candlelight. A world where silence was holy and her name would be spoken only in duty. There was peace in the image, perhaps; but it was the peace of still water, where nothing dared move beneath the surface.

The mare jolted as the path dipped sharply, stones sliding loose underfoot. Lorna’s hand flew to the reins, steadying them both.

“Easy, lass,” she murmured, the words catching in her throat.

The horse settled, its breath visible in the cold air, and Lorna exhaled slowly, as though calming herself along with it. Each step forward carried her closer to Iona, to the vow she had not chosen, and farther from the world that had once known her name.

They rode in silence for a time. Mist thickened into drizzle, the scent of rain and salt blurring the air. Somewhere ahead, she could hear the faint rush of the river. The land opened into a small hollow where birch trees bent in the wind, their silver bark shining wet. It might have been beautiful, had her heart not been so heavy.

She thought of her father. Of his proud silence the morning she left, his jaw set, his eyes fixed anywhere but on her face. He had not embraced her. She believed he could not, because to show pain was to invite weakness in his world. Yet she had seen his hand tremble when he reached for his sword belt, and that was enough. He loved her. He always had. But love had no place in politics.

She thought of Isla, too, though she had not seen her since the day the king’s decree tore their family in two. She had argued, railed, fought the marriage as only Isla could, all fire and fury and pride. Lorna loved her for that wild courage. She herself was fashioned of gentler threads—steadier, quieter, shaped more by duty than defiance. Isla met fate with a bared heart. Lorna met it with lowered lashes and folded hands.

The wind shifted, carrying the smell of brine and smoke, and when the mist finally thinned, she saw the river glinting dull silver beneath the pale light, and the small ferry rocking gently at its post. The sight should have meant progress, but instead her stomach turned to stone. That humble craft, tethered by a single rope, was the threshold between all she must become and all she was meant to forget.

Somewhere beyond that water lay Iona, the island of saints as they called it. A place of silence and prayer. A cage built of stone and faith.

Her mare slowed, sensing her unease, hooves squelching in the wet ground. The water ahead looked endless, restless, its gray surface rippling under the bite of the wind. Lorna swallowed hard, drawing her cloak tighter. The ferryman stood waiting at the bank, a hunched figure with eyes that flicked toward her before darting away again. Even he seemed reluctant, as if he knew what the crossing meant.

Alan dismounted first, his boots sinking into the mud. He scanned the water, then gestured toward the men.

“We’ll cross in two turns,” he said. “Half the guard wi’ Lady Lorna first, the rest tae follow.”

Lorna nodded, though her hands had gone cold around the reins. This was it—the moment the land would let her go. She could not tell whether it was the river or herself that trembled more. And still, she swung her leg over and let her boots sink into the mud. The chill bit through the leather soles, seeping into her bones. She drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders, its damp edges brushing against her skirts as she lifted her gaze toward the horizon. The mist hung heavy over the water, turning the far shore into a smudge of gray she could barely see. It felt like staring at her own future—near enough to imagine, too far to reach.

Alan gave a sharp whistle, signaling the men to move. One guard led his horse first, coaxing it forward with low murmurs. The animal hesitated at the edge, nostrils flaring, hooves clattering against the wooden ramp. Another guard followed, steadying the reins as the horse’s weight shifted onto the narrow planks. The ferry creaked under the strain but held firm, rocking slightly with each new step. One by one, the beasts were guided aboard, their ears flicking back at the sound of the river below.

When Alan turned to her, holding out a hand, Lorna hesitated for a heartbeat too long. Then she took his hand, her fingers stiff with cold, and crossed the ramp. The boards swayed under her boots, a reminder of how fragile the ground beneath her had become.

Once aboard, she moved aside to give the men room. The ferry was cramped, little more than a flatbed bound by rope and faith. The current pressed against the hull, soft but insistent, tugging them toward the open flow of the river. Lorna steadied herself with one hand against the railing. Her reflection shimmered in the dark water below—a pale, wavering ghost that vanished each time the ferry shifted, as if even the river refused to hold her image for long.

Halfway across, the wind hissed.

At first, she thought it was only the weather turning. Then came a sharp sound that cut through the rain. Alan’s head snapped up.

“Down!” he shouted, his voice splitting through the wind a moment before the world ignited.

The first arrow struck the prow with a sickening thud, its head buried deep in the wood. A hiss followed, then a bloom of fire. The flame spread with unnatural speed, eating through the tarred boards, licking its way along the deck. Another arrow hit, and another, each one whistling through the air before bursting into sparks. The ferry rocked violently beneath their feet.

The horses reared and screamed, eyes rolling white, hooves striking the boards in panic. One kicked free of its tie, nearly toppling a guard as it tried to bolt. The air filled with the stench of burning pitch, wet smoke, and fear.

“Archers!”

Lorna’s breath caught, the sound ripped from her chest. She could barely see through the smoke—only flashes of movement, the glint of blades drawn in defense. The guards surged forward, one hacking at the ropes to free the boat from its mooring, another crouching in front of her, his shield raised. The ferryman shouted curses to the wind, beating at the fire with his cloak, but the flames leapt higher, fed by oil and rain.

The heat came fast, blistering against her face. Lorna pressed her hand to her mouth, coughing as the smoke clawed down her throat. Her eyes watered. The world had turned to sound and motion—swords drawn, men shouting, arrows slicing through the fog, the low thunder of the river battering the hull.

“Get her off!” Alan roared. “Back tae shore!”

But there was no shore, not anymore; only a wall of fire and mist, and the deafening rush of the current that seemed to pull them deeper into the heart of it all.

The men turned the ferry hard, the current fighting them. Another volley struck—one arrow burying itself in a guard’s chest. He fell without a sound. Lorna reached instinctively, catching his arm as he dropped, but the weight pulled him overboard. The river swallowed him whole.

“Lady, stay low!” Alan pushed her toward the center. She obeyed, ducking beneath the low railing, heart hammering. Her hands shook, though she tried to still them. Fear was useless now.

The ferry groaned as more fire took hold. Heat scorched the hem of her cloak. She could hear shouts on the far bank. The men were armored. Organized.

Soldiers.

The thought sliced through her like ice. Who would dare? The king himself had sanctioned her journey. No clan would be so bold unless—

A sudden cry tore through the air as an arrow slammed into the mast beside her, splintering the wood. The next struck the rail inches from her arm, scattering sparks where pitch met flame. Lorna stumbled back, the breath knocked from her chest, her pulse roaring in her ears. The ferryman shouted something she couldn’t hear over the din.

Chapter Two

“Hold!” Alan barked, raising his sword toward the riverbank. His voice was hoarse but steady, the kind that made men rally even as the fire burned higher. “We’re almost through—shield the lady!”

He swung toward the nearest archer’s silhouette, then vaulted over the side onto the shallower stretch of bank, cutting through the smoke. Two of his men followed, blades flashing in the gray light. For a moment she could see them—dark figures against the blaze—fighting to push the attackers back, their shouts lost to the hiss of arrows and the crackle of burning tar. Then the mist swallowed them whole.

The ferry pitched hard. Another arrow tore through the sailcloth, the air filling with the sting of ash. One of the guards fell beside her, hit clean through the chest. His shield clattered against the deck.

Lorna crouched low, pressing her back against the railing. The smoke thickened until she could hardly breathe, each gasp tasting of iron and fear. The sound of steel on steel grew distant, then closer again, chaotic and desperate.

Through the haze she saw movement—a single shape cutting through the flames. A man, broad-shouldered and masked, sprinting along the rope that tethered the ferry to the bank. His boots struck the deck with a heavy thud, the shock of it rattling the boards.

For a heartbeat she couldn’t move. The guards turned to meet him, but he was too fast. One fell, then another, their blades glancing uselessly off his strike. The last man lunged and was thrown aside.

Smoke and rain swirled around them as the stranger lifted his head, his gaze locking on her through the narrow slits of his mask. The world seemed to still—the fire, the shouting, the river’s roar—until only the sound of her own heartbeat remained.

Lorna stumbled backward, her heel catching on a fallen plank. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. The man’s gaze found her through the slits of his mask.

“Well now,” he said, voice roughened by accent. “The king’s bride o’ Christ.”

She lifted her chin despite the terror in her chest. “This is a sanctioned passage,” she said, forcing her voice to hold steady. “By order o’ His Majesty. Stand down.”

He laughed. A low, cold sound. “Then His Majesty will nae be pleased tae ken ye failed.”

The words hit her like a blow. Failed. By design.

He lunged. She turned, catching the edge of his sleeve, driving her knee up with all the force she could muster. He stumbled back, surprised. It was enough for one of her guards to reach her, pulling her behind him.

“Go, me lady!”

But there was nowhere to go. Fire walled the ferry’s rear; the river snarled at its sides. Another man leapt from the shore, followed by three more. The deck shook beneath their boots.

Lorna’s lungs burned. The air was thick with smoke and salt. She searched the mist for any sign of help, but none came.

Someone seized her wrist. The masked man again. His grip was iron, his voice close to her ear. “Ye’ll come quietly, lass, or I’ll drag ye.”

She twisted hard, striking him with her free hand. “Never.”

He caught her other arm, pulling her close. “Brave words, nun.”

Her pulse hammered so hard she could hear it. She tried to wrench free, but his strength was impossible to match. The thought flashed sharp and cold through her mind: if she failed here—if she was taken—the king would think her family had defied him. Her father’s name, her clan’s fragile honor, would be lost.

She could not fail. Her fear surged up like water, but she forced herself to move through it. Every breath hurt; every heartbeat felt like it might be her last. She met the man’s eyes through the slits of his mask and said nothing.

The masked man’s grip tightened around her bound wrists, the leather of his gloves biting into her skin. He hauled her toward the gunwale with a sharp jerk that snapped her forward. The deck lurched beneath them, half-rotted planks groaning under the weight of flame and fighting men.

Through the slits of his mask his eyes gleamed, merciless and certain.

“Walk,” he growled, giving her another wrench.

She planted her feet hard, boots skidding on the slick boards as river water and burning pitch mixed beneath her. The heat behind her was a living thing, licking up her back, singeing the loose ends of her hair. Ahead, mist rolled off the water in low, ghostly veils, turning everything to shifting gold and shadow.

Her muscles trembled. Her arms ached. She could feel her strength bleeding away with each drag he forced from her. Still, she fought the pull, her breath stuttering, her heart thundering with the one truth that had carried her all that way—

She was a MacAlpin. She would not be the reason they fell.

But the smoke thickened, swallowing the air she needed. A dizzy wave washed over her, her knees giving way as he yanked harder. The world narrowed to heat at her back, river wind biting her cheeks, and the press of his hand shoving her toward the edge.

Smoke filled her lungs. It clawed down her throat as she fought to breathe, to see, to stay upright. The heat came in waves, wrapping around her like a living thing. Her wrists burned where the masked man’s grip tightened, dragging her toward the edge of the burning ferry.

“Ye’ll walk, or I’ll carry ye,” he growled, his voice rough with smoke.

Lorna dug in her heels, though the deck swayed beneath her like a living creature. “I’ll dae neither,” she said, her voice trembling more from fury than fear.

The man laughed under his breath. “The king’s little nun’s got a tongue, then.” He yanked her forward again. The world was nothing but flame and ash—the shouts of dying men, the hiss of arrows meeting water.

Her vision blurred. Her chest heaved. The air was too thick to fill her lungs. She fought to pull free, but his grip held fast. When she stumbled, he caught her by the shoulder and dragged her upright again, forcing her closer to the railing.

She twisted, desperate, nails biting into his sleeve. For one suspended heartbeat, their eyes locked through the slits of his mask. His were cold, colorless, reflecting the fire like two shards of glass.

His voice came low and certain, almost pitying. “This is bigger than ye ken, lass. Best pray now, while ye still can.”

Before she could speak, a sound broke through the fire’s roar, a thunder rolling low across the glen. At first it seemed part of the chaos, another cruel trick of the storm. But it grew louder, steadier, each beat shaking the ground beneath the river’s edge. Hooves. Not many, but enough to turn the air alive with power.

The masked man’s head snapped toward the shore. Lorna followed his gaze. The mist was thick as breath, swallowing the edges of the world, yet from within it, light flickered as metal caught flame, movement surging like a storm made flesh.

Shapes emerged through the veil of smoke: riders bearing silver banners, their armor wet with rain, their horses driving through the mire with relentless purpose. They looked less like men than revenants risen from the land itself, the kind whispered of in stories told by firelight—those who came when all seemed lost.

“Hold the line!” a deep, commanding voice bellowed from the ridge, too sure of itself to belong to any ordinary man.

The masked soldier’s curse was swallowed by the wind. He dropped her wrist, his blade shifting to defense. “Damnation—”

And then the world erupted.

The first of the riders cut through the smoke like a blade through silk. His horse plunged forward, hooves splashing through the shallows, the light catching on the steel that crossed his chest. For one terrible, brilliant instant, Lorna thought he wasn’t real. The firelight caught him like a vision, painting his armor in shifting gold and shadow, the rain hissing off his shoulders like it was fusing to touch him. He moved with the ease of a man who’d done this a hundred times before.

Steel met steel in a flash of sound and color. The air split with the force of the impact. The masked men barely turned in time to defend themselves, their blades clanging uselessly against his strikes. One fell to his knees, the next stumbled backward into the burning water, his scream carried away by the river’s current.

The smell of wet ash and blood filled her lungs. Sparks rained down around her like stars. The rider wheeled his horse toward the deck, the animal rearing as he swung down in one motion, landing hard and sure upon the boards.

For a heartbeat, the chaos stilled around him, the fire bending in the wind, the mist swirling at his back.

And then he moved again, toward her this time.

Lorna stumbled backward, catching herself on the railing. Her knees buckled, but she stayed upright, forcing her body to obey. Alan’s voice rose through the chaos somewhere to her right, rallying the last of her guard.

“Tae me!”

She turned toward the sound. Alan fought at the river’s edge, his sword glinting in the light. His face was streaked with ash, his hair soaked through, but his stance was steady.

Then the rider broke through the haze—tall, broad-shouldered, his cloak dark with rain and the silver-stag sigil glinting faintly beneath the soot. For one dizzying second, he looked like a creature born of the storm itself, forged of wind and fire and will. The mist curled around him as though unwilling to touch him.

He dismounted before the ferry had even steadied, boots striking the shallows in a spray of water, then vaulted up onto the burning deck with a surety that left her breathless. The boards groaned under the weight, the fire licking dangerously near, yet he moved with the control of someone who had never learned to fear it.

Lorna barely had time to turn before the masked man behind her snarled and hauled her back against his chest, one arm locking hard across her ribs. His other hand dropped to the dagger at his belt, dragging her toward the edge.

“Another step,” he hissed, “and she dies.”

The deck pitched. The flames roared, but the rider didn’t hesitate.

He went for the man in a single, decisive strike—steel clashing with a scream of metal. The masked man staggered, cursing, shoving Lorna aside so he could lift his blade with both hands. The movement tore her balance; she fell hard to her knees, vision swimming as the two men clashed above her.

She heard the brutal force of the blows, impacts that shook the boards beneath her palms. The rider fought without wasted motion, each step deliberate, each swing meant to end a life. The masked man lunged; the rider twisted, caught the attack on his forearm, and drove his sword up beneath the man’s ribs with a sound that cut through the roar of the fire.

The man choked, froze, and crumpled at the rider’s feet.

For a heartbeat nothing moved, then the rider turned toward her.

His blade flashed once, so quick she barely saw it, cutting through the rope that bound her wrists. The sound of it was clean, sharp, final. The touch of the cold steel against her skin sent a shock through her, as though the freedom it gave was more than physical. For a moment she could do nothing but breathe, the air thick with smoke and the scent of him, something warm that didn’t belong in the middle of a battle.

“Ye’re safe now,” he said, his voice deep and measured, each word shaped by authority. The kind that demanded obedience without cruelty. It reached her body before her mind could, and she found herself stilling at the command.

He was close enough now that she could see the water clinging to his lashes, the faint scar that traced the edge of his jaw. His eyes—gray, clear, steady as stone—caught the firelight and held it, turning it silver. He looked at her, as if he was assessing what she was made of.

Her pulse thudded in her throat, wild and unsteady, as if her body recognized something her mind refused to name.

“Who—” The word scraped from her raw throat. “Who are ye?”

“Duncan MacInnes,” he replied, low and certain, his accent grounding the name in earth and rain. “And ye’re on me land.”

The name struck through her haze like a memory. The laird of Kinlochaline. She had heard the stories whispered about him, the man who’d buried his family in the MacTavish wars, who had rebuilt his keep with his own hands, who ruled the Morvern coast with the silence of a man too acquainted with grief. She had imagined him older, colder. But the man before her was neither.

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Chapter One

Glen Spean Corridor, March 1689

Days had passed since the attack on the MacDonald clan by Laird Roderick Munro and his men, yet whenever the wind shifted Catherine swore she caught the sting of ash carried down from the hills. It was a reminder that their keep had been breached, that the MacDonald name itself had almost burned. Now they stood in the courtyard of the castle, the chill air sharp with the scent of pine and river mist, ready to ride to the birlinn that would carry them west to Aidan Cameron’s lands.

She kept her chin lifted high as she stood beside the line of horses, refusing to let her sisters see the heaviness lodged sharp in her chest. Alyson’s pale face was drawn with quiet courage, while Sofia clutched her mare’s reins too tightly, knuckles white against the leather. Catherine would not add her own fear to theirs. She would be steel if she must, even if her heart trembled. For them.

The sound of hooves striking stone pulled her back to that night—the sudden thunder in the courtyard, the shouts that had split the dark. Bare feet against cold flagstones, her skirts gathered high as she flew into the passage, then her brother Michael’s shoulder, blood smeared across his arm, his sword already drawn. Her brother, Tòrr’s voice had cracked through the din, fierce as a whip.

Keep the lasses safe! Get them out!

She blinked against the memory, forced her breath even. At the front, laird Aidan Cameron stood conferring with his men, broad shoulders squared, every movement calm, precise, infuriatingly controlled. Dark hair tugged loose in the wind, his plaid snapping behind him like a banner. He gave nothing away, not a flicker of whatever weight he bore.

And damn him for it. Damn him more for the way the sight caught at her chest. Broad and cut from stone, with the air of a man who needed no one, he looked every inch the kind of warrior women whispered of in corners. She hated that her eyes lingered too long on the line of his jaw, on the quiet strength in the way he held himself, hated that a thought as traitorous as beautiful stirred where only disdain should have lived.

Her pride burned hotter for it. That her and her sisters’ fates should rest in the hands of that man—the one her brothers trusted above all others, her brother Tòrr’s dearest friend and the man who had fought beside Michael more times than she could count. A rake by reputation, cold by nature, with a heart that Michael once muttered was “hard enough fer war.” Catherine had thought it was more curse than compliment.

When Sofia fumbled with her skirts, Catherine leaned to help, disguising the act with a bite of her tongue. “If ye take any longer, sister, the Campbells will have burned the rest o’ the Highlands afore ye settle in the saddle.”

Sofia gasped, scandalized and soothed in the same breath. “Catherine, ye cannae jest o’ such things.”

“’Tis better than weeping.” Catherine flicked her reins, her mare shifting under her with a toss of the head as the iron gates creaked wide. The clang of chains and the groan of wood rolled through the courtyard like a drumbeat of farewell. “And I’ve nae mind tae let those devils have the last o’ me laughter.”

Hooves struck sparks off the cobbles, the sharp rhythm echoing against stone before softening into the damp earth of the open glen. The sound swallowed them whole, the cadence of exile.

Keppoch’s walls loomed high behind, scarred by smoke yet proud still, banners torn but flying. Catherine felt their weight at her back, the tug of everything she was leaving behind, but she refused herself even one last glance. To look was to ache. It was better to ride forward with her chin high, even if her heart dragged like lead.

The road tightened, funneling them into Glen Spean where mist clung heavy to the slopes. Hills rose close and steep, hemming them in, their shoulders draped with pine.

Catherine drew her cloak close, though the cold at her ribs was not from March’s air. It was the memory of the night when flames had lit those very walls they now left, the sound of steel in the dark. She pressed her shoulders straighter against it.

The small party rode in tight formation along the narrowing path through the Glen Spean Corridor, Aidan Cameron and his men leading ahead, the MacDonald sisters guarded in their midst, and a second line of Cameron soldiers closing behind. The rhythm of hooves echoed through the glen, steady and sure, a sound meant to promise safety though Catherine felt none of it.

Alyson rode beside her, lips thinned, jaw tight, silence speaking what her pride would not. Sofia’s wide eyes darted with every stir of shadow. Catherine forced herself into poise, mouth curved in a wry arch, the kind of smile that dared the world to test her, though her pulse pounded fast beneath her calm.

“Tell me,” she said lightly, breaking the silence, “will Aidan Cameron’s grand keep be so fine as he boasts? Or shall we discover that all his pride is smoke and air?”

Alyson sighed. “Dinnae bait him, Catherine. Nae when he holds our charge.”

“Bait him?” Catherine arched her brow. “I merely wonder at the comforts that await us. Fer if we are tae be hidden away like hens, I should at least like the coop tae be well feathered.”

From the head of the column, Aidan’s voice carried back, deep and even. “Ye’ll find Achnacarry secure enough. That is all that matters.”

Catherine smiled, slow and triumphant. “Aye, secure,” she murmured under her breath, “if a woman can bear such company.”

Aidan turned in his saddle then, not fully, just enough that his gaze caught hers over his shoulder. The look was steady, unreadable, but it sent something sharp through her chest all the same.

“Ye’re welcome tae walk if me company offends ye, lass,” he said, the faintest edge of amusement beneath his calm.

“I might,” she returned, chin lifting, “if I trusted the road half so much as ye trust yerself.”

He gave a quiet sound—half laugh, half scoff—and turned forward again, his shoulders shifting beneath the weight of his plaid. Catherine’s pulse stumbled despite herself. She told her heart to still, to remember what sort of man he was: her brother’s friend, her reluctant escort, nothing more.

Catherine felt her lips curl in satisfaction. She had not addressed him directly, yet he had heard her all the same. And if she pricked him enough to draw a reply, then perhaps his lairdly calm was not quite as unshakable as he wished the world to believe.

Hours passed in the steady rhythm of hooves and the occasional murmur of soldiers shifting formation. Catherine’s thoughts circled restlessly, refusing to be stilled. Every turn of the glen seemed too quiet, every tree a place for enemies to crouch. The Highlands were not safe. Not for the MacDonalds, while Angus Campbell gathered clans into his Pact of Argyll, weaving alliances like snares so that their family stood nearly alone against the tide.

Her jaw tightened. She would not be taken like a lamb to slaughter, no matter what Tòrr or Aidan or any man decreed.

The glen widened at last, the loch glimmering ahead through the mist. Catherine took a deep breath, relief prickling through her veins at the sight of the birlinn waiting at the shore, its mast stark against the sky. One passage, and they would be behind Cameron walls. For now, safety seemed within reach.

Until the horses at the front balked. A ripple ran down the line. Catherine straightened in her saddle, eyes narrowing as she peered past the men ahead and she noticed shapes moving on the shore. A band of riders with steel at their sides, waiting.

Her pulse kicked hard. She felt Alyson stiffen beside her, heard Sofia’s quick breath. The air thickened, weighted with the certainty that danger had found them again.

Aidan reined forward, his horse stamping the earth. His voice rang cold across the glen. “What is this?”

The group parted, and a single rider advanced. Catherine’s stomach twisted at the sight of him—familiar in ways that scraped raw against her pride. Broad shoulders, fair hair darker than memory, eyes fixed on her with a heat that made her blood run cold.

“Catherine,” he said, and the name on his tongue was a claim.

Her breath caught. Laird Edwin MacLeod. 

Chapter Two

The letters she had burned, the gifts she had returned, the courtesy she had shown him only because custom demanded it—none of it had severed him. She had been polite, as was expected of her, but she had never encouraged him, never accepted a single word of his supposed courtship. And now, there he stood, blocking her path, armed men at his back.

Aidan’s gaze cut to him, sharp as a drawn blade. “Edwin MacLeod. State yer purpose.”

Edwin’s eyes never left hers. His mouth curved into a smile she knew too well. “I am here fer what is mine.”

Every muscle in Catherine’s body went taut. “What is yers?” Her voice rang clear, though her heart thundered.

Edwin’s smile deepened, and when he spoke the words were a shackle thrown at her feet. “Me betrothed.”

The word struck like a slap. Betrothed.

Catherine’s lips parted, breath catching in outrage before she forced it into steel. “Yer betrothed?” She could hear the blood pounding in her ears, could feel Alyson’s stiff silence beside her and Sofia’s hand clutching at her sleeve.

But Edwin only smiled wider, the same boyish curve he had once wielded at feasts, when he had pressed notes into her hand or lingered too near in corridors. He looked at her as though her protest meant nothing, as though her will were smoke against stone.

Aidan’s gaze cut between them, cool as mountain frost. “What claim dae ye make?”

Edwin straightened, his chest swelling beneath his plaid. “Catherine MacDonald has long been promised tae me. Our faithers began the negotiations when we were bairns, and the contract was near drawn when her father fell. Her brother Tòrr will sign it soon enough—an agreement between our clans, made in good faith.”

Catherine’s hands clenched on her reins, her blood hot. “Ye speak o’ contracts that were never signed, Edwin. There was nay promise, nay word from Tòrr, and certainly nay word from me.”

Edwin’s tone softened, the false tenderness cutting deeper than anger. “Ye forget, Catherine. The MacDonalds ken o’ our courtship. Ye returned me letters only out o’ modesty. Ye cannae deny what all the Highlands already ken.”

“Nay.” Catherine’s voice shook with fury, though she sat tall in the saddle.

A murmur ran through the MacDonald men around her, the uneasy shiver of swords half drawn, of pride affronted. Catherine’s cheeks burned from the humiliation of being spoken of like a parcel to be claimed. She had ignored Edwin’s letters, returned his trinkets, let his eager words fall unanswered. That silence should have been enough of an answer. And yet here he stood, his delusion thickened into chains.

Aidan’s eyes lingered on her longer than on Edwin, searching, assessing, weighing something unspoken. Catherine met his gaze head-on, unwilling to flinch beneath it, though the ground seemed to shift beneath her boots. There was no mockery in his look, only a measured calm that made her pulse stumble.

For one wild heartbeat, she wondered what he saw—a foolish girl dragged into another man’s lie, or a woman worth defending. Either way, she hated that the question mattered. Her throat tightened, pride warring with shame as she forced her chin higher. If he pitied her, she would sooner drown in the Spean than bear it.

“She has her braither’s blessing tae ride wi’ me tae Achnacarry. I’ve heard naught o’ this betrothal.” His tone was even, but it pressed like the edge of a blade.

Catherine’s throat tightened. She hated that he looked at her, hated more that part of her wanted him to see the truth in her eyes, to know she had never given Edwin cause. Pride locked her jaw. She would not beg for his belief.

Edwin laughed low. “Nae yet official, nay. But Laird MacDonald will hear me. I’ve courted her these many months, and I’ll nae be denied what’s mine by some Cameron dog sniffing at her heels.”

The insult snapped through the air like flint to tinder. Catherine saw the shift in Aidan’s shoulders, the way his body went still before the strike, controlled and dangerous. The men behind him froze as if bound by the same invisible thread that held her breath still in her chest.

He looked carved from the Highlands themselves, every line of him honed by war and weather, the wind tugging his dark hair across a face set in quiet fury. The air around him thickened, the kind of silence that came before storms, and for one treacherous moment she could not tell if it was fear or something far more dangerous that made her heart race.

Aidan’s gaze flicked toward her, brief and burning, and the look struck harder than any sword. In that instant, she forgot the men around them, forgot Edwin’s boast, forgot everything but the dark steadiness in Aidan Cameron’s eyes and the silent promise that he would not let her be taken.

“Until such vows are spoken, MacLeod,” Aidan said, voice iron, “ye’ve nay right tae bar me path.”

“Then ye’ll test it?” Edwin’s smile sharpened. “I thought as much. Ye’ve always thought yerself above all o’ us.”

The glen went silent save for the restless stamping of horses. Catherine’s pulse hammered so loud she thought the men must hear it. She wanted to scream at them both, to tear down their arrogance, yet her words tangled against the rising wall of dread.

“Stop this,” she cried, the sound raw, dragged from her chest with more desperation than control. “Both o’ ye, stop!”

Her voice rang out, but against the stone of their pride it struck hollow. Edwin’s gaze remained locked on her, burning with the certainty of possession, while Aidan’s profile was carved in iron, unreadable save for the flicker of something fierce in his eyes. Neither yielded. Neither even flinched.

Then came the clean, metallic rasp of steel leaving its scabbard. Aidan had drawn first. The motion was swift, unhesitating, the blade flashing in the thin light as he levelled it toward Edwin with a steadiness that sent a shiver down Catherine’s spine.

The air shivered in answer, MacLeod men bristling, hands flying to hilts, MacDonald and Cameron steel gleaming in kind. Aidan’s defiance had loosed the cord, and there was no binding it again.

A spark of movement—one soldier stepping forward, another answering—and the thread snapped.

The glen erupted.

Swords clashed, ringing sharp enough to split the mist. Horses screamed and reared, hooves lashing the earth, showering mud and sparks as steel met steel. Shouts tore the air, commands lost in the chaos, cries of pain already rising.

“Nay!” Catherine spurred her horse forward, the animal lurching beneath her as panic shot like fire through her veins. Her heart hammered hard enough she thought it might break her ribs, her ears filled with the relentless clash of blades, the scrape of iron on iron, the dull thud of steel meeting flesh.

Every strike, every roar of defiance, every drop of blood spilled on this narrow stretch of glen was because of her. For her name, her body, her freedom, as though she were some prize to be won and dragged away, as though she were not flesh and spirit but coin passed from one man’s hand to another.

The weight of it crushed her chest, left her breath ragged and her fury sharp.

Aidan wheeled his mount, cutting down a MacLeod who lunged too close. “Get them away!” His command cracked through the chaos. His men surged toward her, hands reaching for her reins, for Alyson’s, for Sofia’s.

“Dinnae touch me!” Catherine snapped, jerking her arm free, though terror clawed her throat. She twisted in the saddle, eyes wide to the chaos—Edwin bellowing orders, his men driving hard at Cameron steel, MacDonald colors blurring in the frenzy. The air stank of sweat and iron and the first splatter of blood.

Beside her, Sofia’s horse shied, nearly unseating her. Catherine reached across, steadying her sister even as a soldier pressed forward. “Me lady, we must move!”

Alyson’s voice cut sharp, steadier than Catherine’s heart. “Catherine, ride!”

But Catherine’s gaze had already caught the line of Aidan through the press, the way he moved like a force cut from the storm itself. Every strike of his blade was measured, every command torn from his chest like thunder. And still he spared a glance back to her, eyes blazing.

Heat and fury tangled in her chest. That look—aye, he would keep her safe, whether she liked it or not.

Yet her pride screamed against being bundled away while men bled for her. “This is madness!” she cried, but the words vanished in the clash.

Aidan turned, his voice like iron shattering stone. “Go, Catherine!”

Her body trembled with fury, with fear, with the helplessness she hated above all else. And still, she felt herself pulled, her sisters pressed close, the swirl of soldiers urging them toward the trees, away from the crash of steel where Aidan Cameron’s blade met Edwin MacLeod’s.

The clash of steel rang through the glen, echoing off the wet rock walls and rolling down into the narrow pass below. Catherine rode near the rear of the column with her sisters, half shielded by the Cameron guards who had formed a protective ring around them. The glen widened into a churn of mud and shadow where Aidan and his men met the ambush head-on. Horses screamed, men shouted, the air alive with the hiss of blades and the smell of rain-soaked earth.

She twisted in her saddle, straining for a glimpse past the men blocking her sight, and caught only flashes—the glint of steel, the dark sweep of Aidan’s plaid, the controlled rhythm of his strikes as he fought at the front line. He moved like a man born to command both chaos and steel, his blows clean and deliberate amid the frenzy.

The noise of the fight rolled toward them, a storm made flesh. Aidan’s voice carried above it, low and sure, barking orders that kept the line from breaking. Behind him, his men obeyed without hesitation, closing ranks wherever he directed.

Catherine felt the sound of his command more than she heard it, the kind of voice that could hold the world together if it chose. She told herself it was only gratitude, only fear for her life, yet her heart beat to its rhythm all the same.

She had seen men fight before—her brothers, her clansmen—but none like him. There was a terrible grace to it, a beauty she wanted to despise and could not. Every movement of his arm seemed carved from purpose, every strike a promise that he would not fail her.

And yet her breath would not steady. If he fell, it would all fall.

“Ride harder!” one of Cameron’s men barked, his horse pressing close against Alyson’s. “We must clear the glen!”

She rode, pressed tight between her sisters, her fury the only weapon left to her. Mud spattered up her skirts, the wind biting sharp through the glen as the Cameron soldiers shouted for them to keep pace. Ahead, Aidan’s men were driving the line forward, cutting through the chaos toward the trees where safety waited.

She searched for him through the blur of rain and steel—for the flash of his sword, the sound of his voice. When she found him, her chest ached with something fierce and unnamable. He looked unbreakable, the dark plaid sweeping behind him, every strike as if the world around him seemed to obey. Even through the din, she could feel the gravity of him—the command, the danger, the maddening pull that set her blood alight.

A shout tore through the storm, “Tae the trees! Ride!”

The sisters spurred their horses toward the edge of the wood. The path narrowed, the ground slick beneath the hooves, and for one brief heartbeat Catherine thought they might reach cover.

Then the shadows moved. Men burst from the undergrowth, their plaids marked with MacLeod colors, blades flashing like lightning. The air cracked with the sound of steel meeting steel as Cameron guards wheeled to meet the ambush. Horses shrieked, hooves striking sparks on stone as the line buckled and split.

Catherine’s heart slammed against her ribs as one of the guards shouted for her to keep riding, but the order came too late. Rough hands seized Sofia’s reins, another shoved Alyson’s mare hard aside, but the men did not linger on them. Their eyes were fixed squarely on her.

“Take her!” one bellowed. “The lady’s tae come with us!”

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Prologue

1713, Lennox Castle

Davina Lennox stirred at the sudden scrape, sharp enough to slice through her dreams.

Her eyes fluttered open to darkness, with her chamber still steeped in heavy shadows. She lay still, straining to listen.

Nothing.

Only the restless thud of her heart and the quiet hiss of the wind outside her window. She told herself it was no more than the house settling, the kind of noise old beams and stone made at night.

Her lashes lowered again. She could feel sleep hovering close. And then… cold, rough fingers clamped around her arms.

Davina’s scream tore through the stillness as she thrashed upright, the sheets tangling around her legs. In the pitch black, she collided with a solid body. The heat of this person, the reek of sweat and leather, were too close. She gasped in panic and shoved against them. She was mindless with fear as her nails raked and her fists thrashed around. Another set of hands seized her wrist, wrenching it back.

“Nay!” she cried, twisting her entire body with all her strength in an effort to free herself.

She staggered from the bed and lurched toward the door, her bare feet striking the rug in a frantic rush. The chamber spun in disorienting shadow, but she managed to claw the latch free. The door swung wide open and candlelight spilled in from the corridor. For a fleeting heartbeat, relief flared, but that was only until she saw them.

There were four of them. Four men in the night, looming at the threshold, all broad-shouldered and all masked with rough scarves and shadows. Light glinted off a blade one of them had in his belt.

Terror knifed through her.

Davina lunged forward, wild and desperate, striking at the nearest man with her fists. He grunted and staggered back, but another caught her by the waist. She kicked, screamed, twisted free enough to claw at his cheek. She nearly slipped past them into the corridor, feeling the hope of escape sparking in her chest.

She wrenched against their hold, opening her mouth to scream for help, but before she could cry out, she felt a sharp crack as a man’s palm struck across her cheek. Her head whipped to the side, the sting burning her skin. The taste of copper flooded her mouth and it made her gag. The brute raised his hand again, and she could see fury flashing in his eyes, but before the second blow could land, another caught his wrist.

“Enough,” he growled. “The laird gave clear instructions that she’s tae be brought unharmed.”

The man snarled but lowered his hand, grumbling beneath his breath. Davina tried to take advantage of the pause, inhaling to scream again, but a square of cloth was shoved between her teeth, muffling her cry into a helpless, desperate sound. The bitter tang of dust and linen filled her mouth as she gagged against it.

Her wrists were wrenched together behind her back and bound with coarse rope, the fibers biting deep into her skin. She twisted frantically, her chest heaving as the air in the corridor seemed too thin to breathe. Somehow, with a wild surge of strength, she slipped past their grasp and bolted.

Her bare feet slapped against the stone floor, her nightdress fluttering around her legs as she raced down the hall. Freedom was just ahead, if only she could reach the stairs, if only she could make enough noise…

A hand clamped around her arm, wrenching her back with brutal force. She cried out against the gag, but the sound was strangled and useless. Another man caught her waist, lifting her feet clean off the floor as she kicked and writhed. Her heel struck flesh, drawing a hiss of pain, but it wasn’t enough. They dragged her back, her body thrashing and her lungs burning with the effort of her muffled screams.

The walls seemed to close in, the flickering candlelight mocking her with its frail warmth. All her strength, all her fury was swallowed in their iron grips. Helpless, Davina felt the terror settle deep in her bones as the corridor spun around her, her world narrowing to the suffocating press of hands and shadows.

The men half-carried, half-dragged her through the dim corridor, her heels scraping along the stone. She twisted against their grip, feeling panic clawing at her chest. The gag bit into her mouth, smothering her cries, but her eyes darted wildly, praying to find for something she could use.

Suddenly, her hip brushed the edge of a small table set against the wall. In a desperate surge, she seized the heavy vase resting there with her still bound hands. Then, with all the strength born of her terror, she swung it backward.

The vase smashed against one of her captors’ temples with a sickening crack. He bellowed and collapsed, dragging the others off balance. The porcelain shattered on the floor, the shards scattering like a scream through the silence.

The noise echoed through the hall.

“Damn her!” the leader snarled, shoving her forward with renewed fury. “Move! Quickly, before the whole blasted castle wakes!”

From the corner of her eye, Davina saw a door creak open. A servant with hair still tousled from sleep stepped into the hall, blinking at the scene before him. His gaze widened with dawning horror.

“Help! The lady—”

He never finished. One of the brutes lunged forward and brought a heavy fist down upon the man’s skull. The crack of impact was sharp and sickening. The servant crumpled to the floor without a sound, his body motionless.

Davina’s heart stopped, terror choking her. Despite the shattering crash and the servant’s cry, no rescue came swiftly enough. The intruders surged forward with brutal efficiency, dragging Davina through the halls. She kicked and writhed, her nails clawing at their arms, but another rough rope lashed around her ankles, and she stumbled, utterly powerless.

“Head out! And watch her closely!” The leader barked orders, his tone sharp and furious.

They bound her tighter, her wrists biting under the cords until her hands went numb. The gag smothered her screams to a muffled sob as they hauled her out into the night.

The chill air struck her like a slap. Moonlight spilled across the courtyard, throwing their shadows long against the cobbles. Her heart pounded, each beat a hammer of terror as they thrust her toward waiting horses.

Behind them, the castle suddenly erupted. Doors began flying open and shouts were echoing down the corridors.

“Davina!”

It was her brother’s voice. Finley’s roar split the night like a battle cry.

Hope flared inside of her, sharp and aching, as she twisted in her captors’ grip. Through tear-blurred eyes, she glimpsed him: Finley, with his dark hair wild and a pistol in hand, men rushing at his side.

“Hold her!” the leader snarled.

They hauled her onto a horse, with her body thrashing more than before, but the ropes digging deep, keeping her bound. A man vaulted up behind her, pinning her to the saddle as another spurred the beast into motion. Hooves thundered against stone, drowning her frantic, muffled screams.

She heard the answering thunder behind them. It was Finley’s men giving chase, their steel flashing in the moonlight.

“Davina!” Finley’s voice carried, raw with desperation.

Her heart broke with every frantic beat. She tried to cry out, to let him know she was still there, still fighting, but the gag swallowed her plea. The distance widened, while the pounding hooves carried her farther and farther into the dark.

Eventually, her brother’s voice grew fainter, swallowed by the night.

Davina’s chest ached with the weight of it, the weight of a hollow, crushing grief. She had never felt so lost, so utterly torn from the safety of her world. And as the castle walls vanished behind her, she knew that Finley would not reach her in time.

She also knew that the night had swallowed them whole.

The thunder of hooves echoed all around, the gang riding as one shadowy mass through the castle gates and into the wild beyond. The wind clawed at her hair, dragging it loose from its braid until it whipped across her face. Tears blurred her vision, but she caught fleeting glimpses of the world rushing past: the dark smear of forest, the glint of moonlight on water, the rolling expanse of moor.

She twisted her head, straining to hear more. For a moment she thought she could almost see the gleam of torches and the flash of steel, but the distance grew.

“They’ll nae catch us,” the leader barked over the rush of wind. “Drive them hard!”

The others spurred their mounts, and the horses leapt forward with renewed speed. The pounding in Davina’s chest matched the frantic rhythm of the hooves. She fought against her bonds until her skin tore raw, but there was no give, no mercy.

The cold seeped into her bones, chilling her thin nightdress, but it was nothing compared to the dread gnawing at her. Every mile carried her farther from her home, from Finley’s reach, from everything she knew.

The man behind her shifted, pressing the edge of a blade against her side, a silent warning not to try again. Davina’s breath hitched and she could feel terror roaring in her ears. She stilled, though her heart screamed for freedom.

The ride became an endless nightmare.

Hours bled together, with the pounding hooves a constant drum that rattled her bones. Her body swayed against the saddle, bound too tightly to move and too weary to resist. Her breaths came shallow behind the gag, each one a struggle. Darkness tugged at her again and again, dragging her under until she drifted into unconsciousness, only to be jolted awake by another violent lurch of the horse.

By the time the black sky paled to grey, Davina’s limbs trembled with exhaustion. Her throat burned, her head throbbed, and her spirit felt frayed thin. Dawn crept over the land, unveiling a landscape of jagged hills and mist. At last, the horses slowed.

They stopped up before an ancient castle, stone walls rising stark against the morning light.

Rough hands dragged Davina down from the saddle. Her legs buckled, her body too weak to hold her, and she collapsed onto her knees in the dirt.

The leader approached, looming above her. With one swift tug, he tore the gag from her mouth and Davina gasped and choked, sucking in the cold air as though she had been drowning.

Her throat ached, but she forced words past them. “Where am I? What dae ye want with me?”

The questions rang in the silence, trembling with fear yet edged with defiance.

The man stared down at her, his face shadowed beneath his hood. He said nothing… not a single word. And that silence was worse than any threat, as his gaze sent a cold dread crawling along her spine.

He turned away without answering. At his gesture, two of the others seized her arms and hauled her upright. Her knees scraped against the stone as they dragged her towards a side entrance of the castle. The air inside was colder, as if the walls themselves remembered blood and betrayal.

The interior was vast yet grand in the arched doorways, in the carved lintels and the large hall.

The men hauled her deeper until they came to a chamber with high walls covered in tapestries, a hearth with a burning fire, and the needed amount of furniture. The echo of their footsteps filled the space like the toll of a bell.

They shoved her down onto the flagstones. The ropes at her wrists and ankles kept her helpless, her chest heaving as she tried to steady her breath. Her eyes darted, searching for any path, any chance, but she was cornered, prey caught in the lair of hunters.

Then a voice, smooth and low, slid from the shadows.

“So… Lady Davina Lennox.”

She startled, her head snapping toward the sound. From the far side of the ruined chamber, a figure stepped into the weak light. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a cloak that appeared heavy and dark, he carried himself with the air of command. His features were cast in shadow, but his presence alone chilled her more than the ropes that bound her.

“Dae ye ken me?” he asked, his tone almost curious.

Davina swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “Nay,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from the gag.

The man’s lips curled into a smile. Not warm. Not kind. It was a smile that belonged to wolves and serpents.

“I am nae surprised,” he murmured. “But ye will.”

The words slithered through the chamber, and Davina’s blood ran cold. The men laughed quietly behind her, the sound rough and cruel, as the man’s eyes lingered on her like a predator savoring the catch.

The man stepped closer, his boots grinding against the stones. The morning light caught his face at last. She could see harsh lines and eyes like shards of flint. His smile remained, though it had sharpened into something far crueler.

“I am Laird Donald Mackay,” he said, his voice low but carrying the weight of authority. “And ye, Lady Davina, are the key.”

Davina blinked, stunned. The name struck her like a blow, for it was one she had heard whispered in hushed tones: a man of power, tempered by ruthlessness, his lands marked by feuds and blood. She fought to find her voice.

“The key tae what?” she demanded, though her words trembled.

“Tae the truth, of course,” he said, with his eyes narrowing. “Me wife’s death was nay accident. It was nay fever, nay passing misfortune. Someone in The Triad knows what befell her. And through ye, yer precious family and their ties tae that secret circle of women, ye will help me uncover it.”

The Triad.

The name coiled through her mind like a shadow. She knew of it, of course. Everyone had heard whispers of a clandestine sisterhood, powerful women working in silence to protect, to unearth, to avenge. But that her captor knew of such a network chilled her to the marrow.

“I ken naething,” she whispered fiercely. “Ye have made a mistake—”

Before she could finish, his hand shot out, striking her across the cheek with a vicious backhand. Pain exploded in her skull, and she toppled sideways onto the cold stones. Her breath came in shallow gasps, tears springing to her eyes as she pressed her bound hands against her throbbing face.

Mackay crouched beside her, his voice a hiss. “Ye will ken. Or yer family will make sure of it. One way or another, I will have what I seek.”

He rose and motioned to his men. Two seized her by the arms and dragged her across the hall. They forced her into a side chamber, which was a cell of stone and shadow, where iron rings still jutted from the wall.

With brutal efficiency, they lashed her wrists to the cold iron. It burned into her skin, the stone damp and unforgiving at her back. The heavy door slammed shut, and the echo reverberated like the sealing of a tomb.

Davina sagged against the wall, feeling pain radiating from her cheek, while her heart was battering against her ribs. She tried to steady her breath, but terror pressed on her chest like a weight. The place were silent again, save for the sound of her own labored breathing.

Alone and imprisoned, Davina Lennox stared into the darkness and knew: her nightmare had only just begun.

Chapter One

1717, Near Lennox Castle

The morning air was crisp and the sun was still low enough to cast long streaks of gold across the hills. Davina quickened her steps, the hem of her riding habit brushing damp grasses as she left Lennox Castle behind. The town was not far, and though the road wound long around the valley and over the bridge, she had no patience for its meandering path.

Time was precious. She would cut straight across.

The stream ran fast from the rains the night before, its water cold as it rushed over smooth stones. Gathering her skirts, Davina waded in, feeling her boots slipping on the mossy rocks as she picked her way across. She was more than halfway, the far bank nearly within reach, when a sudden sound split the quiet. It was the sharp, thunderous beat of oncoming hooves.

Her head snapped up, and her heart jolted. Across the rise to her left, five riders burst into view, with their horses charging at full speed. Sunlight glanced off leather and steel, but their faces were unfamiliar. They were strangers.

Davina’s breath caught, her stomach clenching into a knot of dread. For a moment the world tilted, and she was back in the shadows of her chamber four years ago, with men’s hands dragging her down and muffling her screams. The memory hit her like a blow, leaving her blood cold.

“Nay…” she whispered, though no one could hear.

Panic clawed at her throat. She stumbled forward, splashing through the water in a frantic rush to the far bank. Her skirts dragged, heavy with the stream’s chill, but she pressed on, her gaze darting wildly for an escape.

Behind her, the riders shouted to one another, their voices carried over the rush of water and pounding hooves. The horses reached the stream’s edge, great beasts snorting and stamping as they prepared to ford it.

Davina’s breath came sharp and fast. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to flee before the nightmare began again.

She scrambled up the slick bank, panic urging her faster than her footing allowed. Her boots slipped on wet stone, while her heavy skirts pulled her down. She pitched forward, and a sharp cry broke from her lips as she lost her balance.

The cold rush of the stream rose to meet her face, but in that moment, strong hands caught her, hauling her back before she could strike the water. She stumbled against a hard chest, her breath sharp with shock and her gown already sodden and clinging uncomfortably to her form. Water streamed down her sleeves, and her bodice was plastered against her skin, outlining every curve. Heat flamed in her cheeks, though her heart still hammered with fear.

She lifted her gaze.

The man who held her was tall and muscular, his dark hair falling in disheveled strands across his brow. His eyes, which were piercing brown with amber flecks, locked on hers with unsettling intensity. A faint scar traced his jaw, which she assumed was a mark of battles past. His grip was steady and unyielding, as though he had no intention of letting her fall.

Goodness me, how strong he is!

For a single breathless moment, Davina froze. His strength and his steadiness should have reassured her. But memory betrayed her, dragging her back to other hands, other grips that had stolen her freedom. Fear surged like ice through her veins.

She shoved against him, her voice breaking sharp with anger that masked her terror. “What on earth dae ye think ye’re doing, charging at me like that?”

The man’s brows lowered. “Charging at ye?” His tone was incredulous. “Ye were about tae drown yerself in the stream. I was the one who pulled ye back.”

Davina blinked, stung by his bluntness, though her pride bristled more fiercely than her gratitude.

“I was nae about tae drown,” she retorted, hugging her soaked arms across her chest. “I was crossing perfectly well until ye and those men came thundering down like a pack of raiders.”

He released her at last, straightening to his full, imposing height. His expression was hard and unreadable, though a flicker of amusement sharpened his eyes.

“If rescuing a lady from cracking her skull against the rocks earns me scolding, I wonder what thanks would look like.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she became horribly aware of herself, of her wet gown clinging to her figure, of her hair plastered damply against her cheek and the chill of the morning air biting at her skin. His gaze flickered once, brief but undeniable, before he looked away with soldierly discipline. Still, it was enough to set her pulse racing in ways she did not welcome.

Davina stiffened, lifting her chin with what dignity she could muster while dripping stream water. “I didnae ask fer yer rescue.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Aye. But ye needed it.”

The words stung, though his steady presence made it impossible to dismiss him outright. Her pride warred with the unwelcome awareness of just how dangerously attractive he was, and how that scar lent him an air of hardened resilience.

She hated herself for noticing.

“Who are ye?” she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended. “And what business have ye here, coming down on me as though the very Devil were at yer heels?”

The man’s brows lifted. “I might ask the same of ye,” he said evenly. “What lady wanders intae a stream at dawn, alone, without so much as a servant tae steady her step?”

Her eyes flashed. “I dinnae answer tae ye, sir. It is hardly yer concern where I walk.”

“And yet,” he said, his arms folding across his broad chest, “ye would already be face-first in the water if nae for me.”

Davina bristled. She hated that he was right. She hated even more the heat that crept into her throat when his gaze met hers, as though he saw too much.

She lifted her chin. “I asked yer name.”

He tilted his head, studying her as though weighing how much to give away. “And I asked yers.”

Her mouth fell open in outrage. “Ye—! Dae ye make it a habit tae turn every inquiry back upon the lady who asked it?”

His eyes glinted, dark and unreadable, but there was amusement, she realized, though well-hidden behind his stern composure. “Only when the lady seems determined tae scold me fer saving her life.”

Davina sucked in a breath, furious at his insolence, furious at herself for noticing how the morning light caught the scar along his jaw, lending him a rough, dangerous sort of beauty. Her heart beat too fast, though she told herself it was only from fright, not from the way his nearness unsettled her.

“Sir,” she said, her tone low and icy, “ye will answer me plainly, or I shall—”

He leaned in slightly, enough that she caught the faint scent of leather and pine. “Or ye shall what?”

Davina’s lips parted, ready to unleash a cutting remark, when his voice cut across her, low and edged with challenge. “Or ye shall fall intae the water again?” His dark brow arched, and a flicker of wryness warmed his gaze. “Mind ye, I might nae rescue ye this time.”

Her jaw dropped. The sheer audacity of him made her cheeks flame hotter than the morning sun.

“Ye are insufferable, sir!” she burst out, planting her fists on her soaked skirts.

His mouth curved not into a smile, but into something that suggested he enjoyed her fury more than he ought. He straightened, folding his arms across his chest. As such, he was the picture of cool composure in contrast to her dripping indignation.

At last, he inclined his head slightly, as though bestowing a gift. “Arran Mackay,” he said. His voice was steady, unflinching, but she thought she caught the faintest tightening of his jaw as he added. “On me way tae Castle Lennox.”

The name struck her like a blow. Davina’s breath caught, her heart hammering. She took a sharp step back, while her skirts were still clinging wetly to her legs. Her instinct urged her to run away without looking back, but she knew well that he wasn’t alone. The son of the man who had abducted her had come with his men and there were at least a dozen of his men scattered about.

“Nay.” Her voice trembled with fury, with fear, with the ghosts of four years past. “Nay Mackay is welcome at Lennox. Nae now and nae ever.”

If her words surprised him, he didn’t show it. His gaze held hers, steady and unreadable. “Ye cannae ken that.”

“I can,” Davina snapped. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked at him as though he were the very devil himself standing before her. “I ken it because I was the girl, Davina Lennox, that yer laird, yer faither, dragged from her bed in the dead of night. I ken it because I was the one bound, gagged, and stolen away by Donald Mackay.”

The words tore from her throat, raw, jagged, and they seemed to strike him like arrows. For a heartbeat, silence reigned.

Arran’s expression hardened, his jaw working as though he bit back words. His eyes, once flecked with that faint glimmer of humor, were dark now, shadowed with something resembling shame and anger, revealing perhaps a wound too old and too raw.

Davina’s breath came hard and fast, her body taut with outrage. Yet even as her fury rose, she could not look away from him, nor from the storm she saw brewing behind his eyes.

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Best selling books of Lyla

★★★★★ 102 ratings

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.

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★★★★★ 194 ratings

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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Chapter One

1665, Dun Brae

“Where’d the little rat go?” the guard snarled, his torch casting dancing shadows across the timber-framed walls as he searched for the intruder who’d been sneaking through the castle’s restricted passages since before the cock’s crow.

Pain exploded through Isla’s chest where his boot had found its mark moments before. She pressed her back against the cold stone, clutching the stolen guard’s cloak to her chest. The coarse wool scratched against her skin like thistles, but it was her only disguise—her only hope of reaching the council chamber where the Highland lords were deciding her clan’s fate.

It was true that her father was there to speak for the MacAlpins, but those past months had shown how quickly words could be twisted, how easily a good man’s intentions could be manipulated by greedier man.

Her clan had finally clawed its way back to prosperity after years of near-ruin, and she wouldn’t let their future be battered away in some smoky chamber while she sat meekly by the hearth. She had to hear their schemes with her own ears—to know exactly what threats and promises were being made—so she could find a way to protect what her people had fought so hard to rebuild.

Breathe, Isla. Breathe and think.

The stolen cloak hung loose on her small frame, hiding her feminine curves beneath its shapeless folds. She’d taken it from a sleeping guard just after dawn, along with his leather cap which now concealed her telltale auburn hair. Her heart still raced from that first theft—creeping into the guards’ quarters like a common criminal, holding her breath as the man snored off his ale-soaked dreams.

The guard’s footsteps grew closer, his breathing heavy with exertion and the lingering effects of last night’s revelries. She could hear him muttering under his breath, cursing whoever had assigned him to patrol the castle’s maze-like corridors instead of enjoying the Highland Summit’s festivities in the great hall.

“Should be down there with a cup of ale and a warm serving wench,” he grumbled, his torch wavering as he stumbled slightly. “Nae chasing shadows through these cursed passages like some common watchman.”

A rat scurried across her foot, and Isla bit back a gasp that would’ve given away her position. The tiny sound was enough to make the guard pause, his torch turning in her direction like a hunting hound catching a scent.

“I ken ye’re there,” he called out, his voice slurred but determined. “Come out now, and I might not break every bone in yer worthless body. Make me chase ye, and I’ll take yer hide as payment fer me trouble.”

Nae bloody likely.

Isla’s fingers found the dagger tucked into her boot, drawing the familiar weight of steel into her palm. The blade had been a gift from her father years ago—meant for cutting threads and opening letters, not defending herself against drunken guards.

The guard rounded the pillar with his torch raised high, expecting to find a cowering servant or perhaps a thieving beggar. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with a hooded figure whose amber eyes blazed with defiance. He dropped the torch in surprise.

“What in God’s name—” he began, but his words were cut off as heavy footsteps announced the arrival of another guard.

“Problems, Alasdair?” The second guard was older, more sober, and infinitely more dangerous. His hand rested casually on his sword hilt as he studied the scene with calculating eyes—a veteran warrior’s gaze.

Isla grabbed the fallen torch and hurled it at the tapestry behind her. The ancient fabric caught fire immediately, flames racing up the wool and filling the passage with thick, choking smoke that turned everything into a hellish maze of orange light and shifting darkness.

In the confusion, with both guards coughing and cursing as smoke stung their eyes, she managed to slip past them like a ghost. Their shouts of alarm echoed behind her as she sprinted toward the council chamber, the smoke slowing their pursuit—but she had only minutes before the entire castle was searching for her.

Her lungs burned from the smoke, but she pushed forward through sheer determination. As she approached the council chamber, she heard voices from a side passage—urgent whispers that made her blood run cold.

“…everything is in place,” one was saying, his voice barely audible. “MacAlpin will be dead before the hour is out. MacDara’s blade is already positioned.”

Isla pressed herself against the stone wall, her heart hammering. They were planning to murder her father.

Heart pounding with urgency, she crept toward the main council chamber. She found her hiding place behind a massive tapestry depicting Robert the Bruce’s victory at Bannockburn, pressing herself against the wall as the debate raged beyond. The ancient weaving was thick enough to muffle any sounds she might make, but thin enough that she could see through gaps in the fabric.

Please let me be wrong about this. Please let me fears be naething more than imagination.

Through the largest gap in the heavy fabric, she could see the assembled lairds seated around the massive oak table that dominated Dun Brae’s council chamber. The table itself was carved from a single enormous tree, its surface polished by centuries of use. Clan banners hung from the vaulted ceiling, their colors muted by age and flickering torchlight.

Her father sat toward the middle of the table, shoulders rigid with tension, his weathered face like granite as he listened to the political maneuvering swirling around him.

“The MacPherson uprising has shown us the dangers of allowing rebellious clans tae fester unchecked,” Laird Cameron was saying, his voice carrying the weight of his sixty years and twice as many battles. “We must present a united front against outside threats, or we’ll face the same chaos that nearly tore Ireland apart.”

“Unity is well and good,” growled Laird MacDougall from across the table, his scarred face twisted with old resentment. “But some clans have grown too powerful fer their own good. The MacAlpins, fer instance, now have their daughters wed tae two of the most powerful clans in their territory—including the Wallaces, who were their sworn enemies once. How dae we ken MacAlpin isnae using these marriages tae seize control of all the Highland lands in his region?”

Her father’s jaw tightened at the implied insult, but his voice remained steady. “The MacAlpins have bled fer these lands longer than some clans have existed, MacDougall. Me daughters followed their hearts in choosing their husbands, and fortune smiled upon us that love created bonds between clans that might otherwise have remained divided.”

“Aye, but enemies have a way of becoming friends when it suits their purposes,” MacDougall shot back. “What’s tae stop ye from using these new family ties tae seize control of all the Highland territories? Yer daughters have positioned the MacAlpins at the center of a web of alliances that could strangle the rest of us. How dae we ken ye’re nae planning tae become overlord of the entire region?”

As her father’s voice rose in defense of his clan’s honor, Isla’s blood ran cold remembering the whispered words she’d overheard in the passages.

MacAlpin will be dead before the hour is out, the blade is already positioned.

She scanned the chamber frantically, looking for any sign of the threat she knew was coming. But the debate continued, the lords absorbed in their political maneuvering, completely unaware that death was stalking among them.

The debate raged on for what felt like hours, but Isla’s attention kept drifting to the shadows, searching for any sign of the assassin with his positioned blade. Every servant who entered made her heart race, every movement in her peripheral vision sent alarm through her veins.

The hour was nearly up.

Finally, as the lords began to disperse with plans to reconvene the following morning, Isla slipped away from her hiding place. She had to reach her father before he returned to his chamber alone, but the corridors seemed endless, and by the time she reached the guest quarters, she could hear the sound of struggle from behind her father’s door. Steel rang against steel, followed by a crash of overturned furniture.

She burst through the door to find her father locked in deadly combat with a masked assassin, both men bleeding from multiple wounds. Her father, exhausted from the long day of political maneuvering, was clearly losing ground.

“Faither!” she cried, but the assassin used her distraction to press his advantage, driving her father back against the stone wall.

Strong hands grabbed her from behind before she could find another weapon, iron-strong fingers wrapping around her throat. She felt the cold kiss of steel against her neck as an assassin’s blade pressed against her pulse.

“Stop fighting, or the bitch dies!” the assassin snarled, his voice carrying across the chaos.

The clashing of steel slowed as heads turned toward them. Isla met her father’s horrified eyes across the blood-soaked chamber, seeing her own death reflected in his anguished expression. The assassin’s grip tightened around her throat, and she felt the blade bite deeper into her skin.

The killer raised his blade for the killing blow.

So this is how it ends.

Chapter Two

Steel sang through the air with deadly precision, the blade sweeping so close to Isla’s throat she felt the wind of its passage. From the shadows near the chamber’s entrance, a massive figure exploded into motion—a warrior she hadn’t even noticed entering during the chaos. The assassin’s weapon clattered across the stone floor as a Highland claymore knocked it from his grip with bone-jarring force.

The man towered above her fallen attacker, his massive frame silhouetted against the firelight. Ash-brown hair caught the dancing flames as he moved with fluid, lethal grace, his sword cutting through another assassin’s guard with controlled fury. His emerald eyes showed no emotion—cold, calculating, efficient.

Saints, he’s magnificent.

Even in the midst of mortal combat, Isla found herself utterly transfixed by this stranger who fought like death incarnate.

The stranger’s blade found another target, but more assassins poured through the chamber doorway—this had been planned as more than a simple murder.

“Get down!” the stranger roared as crossbow bolts whistled through the air.

Isla dove behind an overturned table, her hand finding the small dagger at her boot again. When an assassin rounded her makeshift shelter, she struck without thinking, the blade finding the gap between his ribs just as her father had taught her years ago. The man’s surprised grunt turned into a death rattle.

But there were too many of them. Steel rang against steel as the stranger battled three men at once, his claymore weaving deadly patterns through the air. No wasted motion, no unnecessary flourishes. He fought like some ancient god of war, but there was something almost beautiful in the deadly efficiency.

“Behind ye!” Isla screamed as another assassin appeared from the corridor.

The warning saved the stranger’s life, but now she was exposed. A masked killer lunged toward her, his blade aimed at her heart. She rolled desperately, feeling steel slice through her sleeve and bite into her arm. Pain blazed white-hot, but she kept moving, kept fighting.

The stranger’s roar of fury echoed through the chamber as he saw her blood. His next strike nearly cleaved his opponent in half.

Within minutes, the last assassin lay dead on the chamber floor. The stranger stepped back, already scanning for additional threats, his attention apparently focused on practical matters, though his eyes lingered briefly on the blood seeping through Isla’s torn sleeve.

Silence fell over the chamber, broken only by labored breathing. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air.

Isla tried to stand and immediately swayed, her vision blurring. The excitement, terror—and blood loss—had taken their toll, and she could feel exhaustion creeping through her limbs.

Without a word, the stranger caught her arm—not gently, but with the efficient grip of someone preventing a tactical disadvantage. His touch was impersonal, businesslike, though she noticed his fingers carefully avoided her wound.

“Ye’re shaken,” he stated flatly, his voice sounding like distant thunder, the deep timbre making something flutter unexpectedly in her chest, already moving her toward a chair. His eyes flicked to the blood seeping through her torn sleeve. “And wounded.” Not a question, not concern—just fact.

Isla found herself studying his profile as he checked her wound. His face was lined from years of war, jaw tight with discipline. There was a thin scar along his left temple, and his nose had been broken at least once. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as he examined the gash on her arm, though he worked with the same cold efficiency he’d shown in battle.

What was she doing, focusing on this man when her father had just almost been killed? It was hardly the time to be noticing how his hands moved with practiced skill, or how the firelight caught the gold flecks in his eyes.

“I need tae tend tae me faither,” Isla protested, trying to move toward where Alistair was slumped against the wall, pressing a cloth to a wound on his arm.

The stranger stepped smoothly into her path, blocking her progress. “He’s stable. Ye’re nae.”

“I can judge me own condition, thank ye very much,” she snapped, irritated by his presumptuous manner.

He didn’t look impressed by her defiance. “Blood loss and shock make hands shake. Ye’d dae more harm than good right now.”

Despite her frustration, Isla felt an unexpected flutter as his calloused fingers briefly checked her pulse at her wrist—clinical, detached. But there was something about the controlled strength in his touch that made her breath catch.

Sweet Mary, what is wrong with me? The man treats me like a broken piece of equipment, yet his touch sets me skin ablaze.

He moved past her to examine her father’s wounds with practiced skill, his touch impersonal as a battlefield surgeon’s. When he finished, her father thanked him for his intervention and he stepped back immediately, already turning his attention elsewhere.

“What’s yer name?” Isla asked, irritated by his dismissive manner.

“MacLaren.” He was scanning the room, assessing damage, counting bodies.

“Laird Connall MacLaren,” her father supplied, approaching with obvious relief despite his wound. “I owe ye a debt—”

“Nay debt.” Connall’s voice was flat, final. He moved past them both to examine the fallen assassins more thoroughly, kneeling to check their weapons and clothing for identifying marks.

Isla watched him work, growing more irritated by the moment.

“Well,” she said, wincing slightly once he started to clean the cut on her arm, “We are grateful fer yer timely intervention,” she offered and then added under her breath, “though ye work like a battlefield surgeon—all efficiency and nay bedside manner.”

Connall looked up, his green eyes moving briefly to Isla’s face. For one moment, she thought she might have his attention, might have earned some reaction.

Finally. Maybe now he’ll—

But his gaze moved on just as quickly, dismissing her as thoroughly as if she’d never spoken.

Or nae. Sweet Virgin, it’s like I’m invisible.

He turned to Alistair instead.

“This was coordinated,” he said simply to her father. “Professional. There will be others.”

“We’ll need tae increase security,” Alistair replied. “But first—”

“I’ll handle security,” Connall cut him off, standing and wiping his blade clean. “Me men will coordinate with yers. The immediate threat is contained.”

He began walking toward the door, clearly considering his business there finished.

“Laird MacLaren, wait,” Alistair called after him.

Connall paused but didn’t turn around.

“Where are ye going?”

“Tae check the perimeter.” His tone suggested this should have been obvious. “Unless ye prefer tae wait fer tae next attack.”

Without another word, he left. The chamber door closed behind him with a resonant thud that seemed to echo Isla’s growing frustration.

It was infuriating.

Isla immediately moved to help her father, tearing clean strips from a hand towel nearby to properly bind his wounds. As she worked, her thoughts circled back to the man who’d just walked out. Connall MacLaren. She’d heard the name whispered in certain circles—a laird known for his silence, his sword, and absolute discipline.

“Hold still, Faither,” she murmured, focusing on the task at hand, even as her mind wandered to the way Connall moved with cold purpose, as if human connection were simply another inefficiency to be eliminated.

His indifference was more unsettling than outright hostility, and despite everything—the assassination attempt, her father’s narrow escape, the knowledge that more killers were likely hunting them—she found herself wondering what it would take to crack that stoic composure.

The thought should’ve been the least of her concerns. Instead, it lodged in her mind like a thorn, refusing to be ignored.

Outside, she could hear MacLaren’s voice giving crisp orders to the guards. Efficient. Practical.

Isla touched her wrist where his fingers had briefly checked her pulse. Most men would’ve used such contact as an excuse for lingering touches, meaningful looks, whispered words of concern.

But not him.

The chamber door opened with a creak, and Connall MacLaren stepped back inside. His green eyes swept the room with that same tactical assessment, taking in the now-secured space and her father’s bandaged wounds with apparent satisfaction. His gaze moved past Isla, focusing entirely on her father.

“Perimeter secured,” he announced to Alistair, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Additional guards posted. Nay further immediate threats detected.”

“Good,” Alistair replied with obvious relief. “I’ll be doubling me own guards as well, and I want two of me most trusted men assigned specifically tae Isla’s protection. We cannae leave her safety tae chance.”

Isla’s temper flared. Before she could stop herself, she stepped forward. “Perhaps if we hadn’t been so focused on political maneuvering, we might have noticed the threat under our very noses. These assassins didn’t just appear from thin air—someone let them in.”

Her father shot her a warning look, but Isla barely noticed. Her attention was fixed on Connall, waiting.

He looked at her then, really looked, for the first time since he’d saved their lives. Those stormy green eyes held her for a long moment, and she felt something shift in the air between them.

“Bold words,” he said quietly, his voice carrying just enough to reach her.

“Bold but true,” she shot back, lifting her chin. “Or dae ye disagree, Laird MacLaren?”

The corner of his mouth might have twitched—or perhaps it was a trick of the lamplight. “Boldness and wisdom arenae always the same thing, lass.”

“And what would ye ken about it?”

This time, there was definitely something in his eyes—amusement, perhaps, or challenge. “I notice more than ye might think.”

The simple statement sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. “I… thank ye,” she said quietly, her earlier anger deflating as the reality hit her. “Fer saving our lives. Fer noticing when it mattered most. I’m grateful, truly, even if I’m terrible at showing it.”

“Ye’re nae terrible at it,” Connall said, something shifting in his expression. “Just… unused tae needing rescue.”

“Aye, well I suppose I’ll need tae get better at accepting help,” she said with a rueful smile. “Though I doubt our paths will cross much once this crisis passes.”

Connall stepped closer, close enough that she could catch that scent of leather and steel that seemed to cling to him. When he spoke, his voice was low, meant for her ears alone.

“We shall see, lass,” he said with quiet intensity, his green eyes holding secrets she couldn’t begin to fathom. “We shall see.”

Connall paused at the door, his hand on the latch. Without turning around, he spoke over his shoulder. “Get some rest, Lady MacAlpin. Tomorrow will bring new challenges.”

As he stepped into the corridor, Isla followed him, her frustration finally boiling over.

“That’s it?” she asked, her voice sharp with frustration. “Ye save our lives, then walk away with naething more than pleasantries?”

Now alone in the corridor, he turned to face her fully. “What would ye have me say, lass? That ye’re bonny? That ye’ve got more fire than sense? That watching ye face down trained killers with naethin’ but a wee blade was…” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Ye dinnae need me words tae ken what ye are.”

Finally.

A crack in that armor.

“And what am I, exactly?” she pressed, stepping closer.

Now he did turn, and the look in his eyes made her pulse quicken. “Dangerous,” he said simply. “Tae yerself. Tae yer faither. Tae any man fool enough tae—” He cut himself off again, jaw tight.

“Tae what?” she demanded.

“Tae think he could tame ye.” The words came out rougher than he’d intended, she could tell. “Good night, Lady MacAlpin.”

That time when he left, he didn’t return.

Isla stood in the empty corridor for several long moments, her heart racing for entirely different reasons than before. Dangerous. He thought she was dangerous.

Finally, she gathered herself and returned to the chamber, closing the door softly behind her. Her father looked up from where he sat tending his wounds, his eyebrows raised in quiet question.

“Everything settled between ye and MacLaren?” Alistair asked mildly.

“Aye,” she said, though her voice sounded strange even to her own ears. “Everything’s… settled.”

She moved to help him with his bandages, but her thoughts remained fixed on those storm-green eyes and the words spoken in the shadows.

Well, Connall MacLaren, if ye think I’m dangerous now, just wait.

As she worked on his wounds, her father’s expression grew more serious. “Isla, we need tae discuss what happened tonight. These weren’t common thieves or opportunistic killers.”

“I ken,” she said quietly, focusing on the task at hand. “They were organized. Professional.”

“Aye. And that means this isnae over.” Alistair winced as she tightened a bandage. “We need tae be more careful. Both of us. Nay more wandering the corridors alone, nay more taking risks.”

“Faither—”

“Nay arguments, lass. Tonight proved that our enemies are willing tae strike at the heart of a Highland summit. There’s naewhere we can consider truly safe now.”

The gravity in his voice sobered her completely, pushing all thoughts of mysterious Highland lairds from her mind.

After helping her father settle for the night, Isla found herself drawn to the chamber window. Below in the moonlight courtyard, she could see Connall’s tall figure moving among the guards, his voice carrying faintly as he gave orders. Even from a distance, there was something commanding about his presence—the way the other men deferred to him, how he moved with that same controlled precision she’d witnessed in the battle.

Dangerous, she thought, remembering his words about her. Aye, perhaps I am. But so are ye, Connall MacLaren.

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Best selling books of Lyla

★★★★★ 102 ratings

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.

Read the book

★★★★★ 194 ratings

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…

Read the book

Chapter One

1647, Jura

“Ye’ll nae break me, ye bastards.”

Lady Margaret MacLean’s voice was hoarse but steady as she spat out those words.

Though her lips were cracked, and her breath tasted of salt and blood, she kept yanking hard on the iron chain that shackled her wrists to the beam overhead, ignoring the sting in her raw skin. The slaver who’d passed by moments earlier had given her a look of half amusement, half wariness.

Let him look. Let them all look.

The ship groaned as it scraped against rock, and the hull lurched as they anchored off the coast of Jura. Margaret had heard one of the men mention the name before, so she knew where they had landed. The scent of kelp and damp earth wafted in through the cracked wooden slats of the hull, solidifying the conviction.

Freedom was just beyond that door. It was so close she could taste it, but the chains refused to give.

The hold was dark and rank with the stink of sweat, sickness, and fear. Around her, girls whimpered softly, their bodies pressed together in a corner where the rats kept away for now. Some had long stopped crying. Others had become hollow-eyed things. They were nothing but ghosts wearing flesh. The sounds and sights scraped at Margaret’s soul.

Was this the fate she was destined for? The fire of rebellion seemed to burn brighter in her than it did in others. She refused to allow the pirates to break her spirit, because as long as she had that, she was alive.

“Margaret,” whispered Elsie, one of the girls from the priory, who had been Margaret’s close friend in these troubled times. Her voice trembled like a reed in wind. “Will they… will they kill us?”

“Nay.” Margaret turned to her, with her chin high despite the ache that throbbed in her temple. “We’re worth more alive. But we willnae let them sell us. We’ll find a way.”

“Still playing at noble lady, are ye?” croaked a voice from behind. It belonged to a girl with matted curls and a half-healed cut across her cheek. She was not one of the priory girls. “Ain’t nae lairds or castles here, princess.”

Margaret bit down the retort. There was no point in telling them the truth. In fact, the truth would make it all even more dangerous for everyone involved, for no one on that ship knew who she truly was. To them, she was just another stolen girl, whose mind kept drifting, unbidden, to the smoke curling above the stone spires of North Berwick Priory, six months past.

She could still remember the steel glinting in the mist, faces covered with scarves and swords soaked in malice. The girls scattered about, running for their lives. Margaret was still dreaming of the flames licking the windows of the priory where her family had raised their only daughter in hiding, fearing the wrath of the MacKenzies, but it seemed that there was more to fear than them alone. In her nightmares, she felt the coarseness of the ropes and the gag in her mouth, as they’d hauled her over a horse like a sack of barley.

A splash brought her back. They were unloading the gangplank. The slavers shouted to one another in a harsh mix of tongues. Somewhere in the distance, a blast cracked through the air, ripping it into two invisible halves.

Margaret curled her fingers into the chain. Her knuckles were bleeding where she’d scraped them against the bolt. She had tried to get away so many times that she had lost count, and the punishment was worse each time, aiming to break her spirit, not only her body.

“Come now, ye wee, pretty thing.” A leering, oily voice cut through the dark. It belonged to a slaver she knew well by now: Coyle. He walked with a limp and liked to toy with his blade. “Let’s see if ye’ve still got fire in ye when ye’re on the block.”

He stooped to unhook her chain from the wall. She lashed out with both feet, catching him in the knee. He swore and backhanded her hard enough to split her lip.

Still, she smiled. “Ye hit like a bairn.”

Coyle grabbed her by the hair and yanked her upright. “Ye’ll regret that mouth, lass.”

Margaret was about to snarl back but the clatter of boots on the ladder made every girl in the dark hold go still. The hatch groaned open fully. Two sailors descended first, rough-looking, broad-shouldered brutes with knives at their belts and piss-soaked boots. Then, Margaret’s eyes fell on the one they all seemed to step aside for. Her entire body trembled, her fingers ached to wrap themselves around his throat and make him expel the very last breath out of his body, for he deserved nothing better. There was to be no mercy for the likes of him.

“Clear out,” came a clipped, commanding voice.

Margaret recognized Coyle’s answering snarl before she saw his face.

“I was told tae guard ’em.”

“Now I’m tellin’ ye tae get above deck.”

Coyle didn’t say anything. He merely spat instead of a response. Then, there was another sound of heavy footfalls retreating up the ladder and Coyle disappeared from view. The new man, who took his place.

Margaret lifted her head just enough to see him now standing at the center of the hold. His coat marked him as something different from the others. It was dark, well-fitted, military in cut. His blond hair was tied back neatly, while his eyes moved across the cramped space like a butcher surveying meat.

He held a small ledger in one hand, and a long, slim knife rested on his belt. Surprisingly, it was not stained with blood like the others’ but it was still honed to a wicked gleam.

“Line ‘em up,” he said.

The sailors barked orders. Girls scrambled to their feet or were yanked up by the arms, whichever way was faster. Margaret moved slowly, not because she was afraid, but because she refused to let them see her fear.

The man approached the first girl and cupped her chin, lifting her face toward the light. He didn’t smile, nor did he speak. He simply looked at what was on offer, at what could be of any use to him. She trembled like a leaf, and when he released her, she sagged back against the beam.

The next girl was inspected more thoroughly. He brushed her hair aside to check her neck, then her arms. She was told to open her mouth, as his gloved hand hovered over her, precise and utterly indifferent. Strangely enough, he did not leer and that, somehow, made it worse.

When he reached Elsie, Margaret clenched her fists so tightly that her nails cut into her palms.

“She’s young,” one of the sailors muttered.

“Still healthy. She’ll fetch a fair price,” that man murmured, jotting something in the ledger.

He continued down the line.

Mary, who was another friend, was also checked, inspected, then marked. Lena was turned around to reveal the fading lash marks across her back. A girl named Isla tried to turn away and was slapped hard by a sailor. The man inspected them all with the easy manner of a man looking at a sword in a merchant’s stall, testing its balance before deciding if it would serve him.

Then he stopped in front of Margaret. He probably expected her to lower her head, like all the other girls did. But she lifted her chin, instead. She vowed to herself that she would not give him shame, or fear, or anything else he obviously wanted of her. Her mother had once told her that pride was not always loud, that it could live in silence, in the way a girl kept her shoulders back even when the world told her to fall to her knees.

So, Margaret kept standing, still and defiant. His gaze roamed from her face down to her frame, which was too thin now, with her ribs slightly visible beneath the coarse shift. She felt utterly bare beneath his assessing gaze, but she refused to look away, even for a moment.

Hunger gnawed at all of them, but Margaret had refused what little food had been offered. Her pride refused to allow her to eat slop meant for pigs. It also refused to let her captors claim even that small victory.

“She’s a pretty one,” he said, speaking as if she weren’t standing right there. “But she’s gone too thin. The buyers’ll see her and think she’s weak an’ sick.”

“She willnae eat,” said one of the sailors nearby.

The man’s eyes narrowed at her. “Is that true?”

Margaret didn’t answer. She knew that silence was the only weapon of power she had to yield in this cruel, unforgiving place and she refused to let it drop out of her clammy, trembling hands.

He took a step closer. “Ye think starving yerself’ll change what’s coming?”

She still gave no reply. Her jaw set even harder.

“Or maybe ye think it’ll kill ye first?” He leaned in slightly. “Dinnae flatter yerself, lass. If ye die down here, I’ll recover the coin elsewhere. Ye’re nae the only asset on this ship.”

Margaret trembled with fear, but her voice was strong. “Aye, well. At least I’d be an asset ye couldnae sell.”

One of the sailors snorted in amusement and another shifted uneasily.

The man’s mouth flattened, and it made the scar she saw on his face even more prominent. “Ye think this is some noble sacrifice? Ye think the world remembers the names of lasses who rot in chains?”

“I dinnae need the world tae remember,” she said coldly.

His expression changed then. There was no more smirking, no more curiosity. There was only a flash of something sharp and immediate, anger intertwined with impatience. He turned to the two men beside him.

“Take her.”

Margaret’s stomach twisted. “What?”

“Tie her in the aft corner… alone.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. “Let her rot in her pride a few days longer. If she starves, so be it.”

Two sailors moved instantly.

Margaret fought, kicking out as one grabbed her arm. The other yanked her chain taut, twisting her wrist painfully. She bucked, cursed, shouted, but there was nowhere to run and no ground to stand on. All this happened while the girls watched in terrified silence.

“Ye bastard!” she spat, her heels dragging through the filth-streaked floor of the hold. “Ye think I’ll beg ye? I’ll never give ye that!”

The man didn’t answer. He just turned his back as they hauled her across the dark space. They threw her down at the far corner of the hold, where the wood sweated cold brine and the rats lingered even in torchlight. The chain rattled loud as they shackled her ankles to an iron loop set into the floor, her arms still bound.

One of them gave the chain a sharp tug for good measure, grinning as she nearly toppled over. She bit back the sound of pain.

Once she was certain that the guards were gone, she continued tugging at the chains. Every movement sent bolts of pain up her calf, but she didn’t stopped trying. She’d twisted her foot until it was nearly numb. She pulled the chain taut, tested the bolts, scraped her fingers bloody searching the seam of the manacle for weakness, but ended up with nothing. And still, she didn’t stop.

Around her, the other girls huddled in silence, with their eyes wide and hollow in the dark. Some wept quietly, while others stared at nothing.

Then, they heard a low thud, which was seemingly insignificant, dull and distant. Then came another, followed by a tremor in the hull. Then shouting and men’s voices rising. The sound of running boots exploded somewhere up above. Someone started barking orders.

Margaret’s head snapped up. Thick and suffocating, the smoke started to curl beneath the hatch and spilt into the hold like a creeping ghost, in search of its next victim. A girl began to cough.

More noise followed, screaming. There were crashes, splintering wood, more screams. Someone bellowed something in a voice Margaret didn’t know.

Fire, she thought to herself, as her heart punched against her ribs. The ship must be burning.

A wave of heat curled down through the gaps in the planks above. The girls were coughing now, stumbling to their feet, desperately pulling at their chains. Some pounded the hull and others wailed for help.

“Nay one’s coming,” Margaret rasped. “Nay one’s coming fer us.”

The smoke was getting thicker, pouring in faster and faster. It stung her eyes and coated her tongue in ash. She didn’t know much, but she knew one thing: if they stayed there, they would all burn.

She glanced down at her tattered dress, noticing a small button. It was made of bone and was already dull from wear. With shaking fingers, she tore it free.

She had no idea what she was doing or what she was trying to achieve. The manacle had a crude keyhole. It was just a rusted oval rim near the hinge. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be locked, just hammered shut. But maybe, just maybe…

Without thinking, she jammed the button in and twisted.

At first, nothing happened. Then, she tried again. Her fingers trembled so hard she dropped it once, scrabbling for it in the dark. Her lungs were burning. Girls were screaming behind her, and a small child retched in the smoke.

She begged whoever was listening… God, the Saints, or the spirit of her clan.

Please, let it give.

She twisted again, harder.

Click.

The sound was so quiet she thought she imagined it. Then the manacle opened. Margaret nearly sobbed, but there was no time. Instead, she composed herself and sprung forward. Her legs were dead from being bound, but she caught herself.

“Mary!” she rasped, crawling back to the girls, coughing through the smoke, using the same button to unclasp her chains. “Elsie… where’s Elsie?”

“Here!” Mary coughed. “Here! She’s stuck, her hands!”

Margaret dropped to her knees and tugged on Elsie’s chains. She wedged her heel against the bolt and pulled. Finally, it budged. Margaret ran to the next girl and used the button again jamming it into the rusted lock.

Another click. Two were freed, then, three. But chaos still reigned.

“The ladder!” someone screamed.

By the time Margaret reached the ladder, her hair reeked of smoke and her chest heaved like a bellows. She glanced back only to see those six girls behind her. Four more were still trying to crawl, while some could barely stand.

She turned to Mary. “Get the little ones up top. If it’s worse above, stay near the hull and wait. Dinnae draw attention.”

“What about ye?”

“I’ll get as many as I can out. Now go!”

Mary hesitated but nodded. She and another older girl began pulling the children toward the ladder. Margaret, on the other hand, stumbled toward the last corner of the hold. There were two girls lying limp on the floor. One of them was coughing blood.

“Nay,” Margaret whispered, picking the first one up. “Ye’re coming, too.”

Smoke swirled all around them, swallowing the light that led to the way out. They had to get off the docked ship, one way or another. But Margaret knew that somewhere beyond that choking darkness, there was wind, there was air, there was freedom and MacLeod’s never left anyone behind.

She helped them toward the hatch, which was already open. Margaret showed the young girl in front of her and grabbed the arms of the other woman.

“Hold ontae her,” she instructed. “Dinnae stop running, nay matter what you see.”

The ladder that went up to the deck was hot beneath her palms. The wood was scorched and slick with soot. Smoke poured over the lip of the hatch, thick and choking, but she forced herself up, pushing the girls forward.

Finally, there was light, which she had not seen in days. But it was not daylight. It was firelight.

Flames licked up the mainmast, while smoke churned across the sky. Men shouted and clashed, and they were not just sailors; Margaret could see that immediately. There were two sides, dressed in distinct clothing, where one group wore the slavers’ rough browns and blues, while the others were finer. A slaver ran past them, bleeding from the shoulder, before he was tackled mid-run by another man who slit his throat in one motion.

A girl whimpered behind her.

“Stay low!” Margaret shouted. “Dinnae stop!”

She darted across the deck, the wood burning hot beneath her bare feet. One woman stumbled behind her, coughing so hard she could barely stand, but Margaret reached back, grabbed her arm, and dragged her. They could see the ladder over the port side. It dangled above the waves, the sea black and boiling with reflected fire.

“Almost there,” Margaret gasped, shoving them toward it. “Go!”

The girls hesitated; their eyes wide with terror.

“Go!” Margaret shouted again.

The girl lunged for the ladder, then began to descend. Margaret watched as the other girls went down, seizing the chance for their safety. Just as Margaret was about to go down herself, she saw a familiar face: Mary was running toward her, pulling Elsie by the hand.

“Here, quickly!” Margaret shouted in a breathless manner.

Without thinking, she urged them to go down. Elsie grabbed the ladder, stopping to look up.

“But what about ye?” she asked with a voice that was on the verge of breaking.

“I’ll be right behind ye, I promise,” Margaret said, squeezing Elsie’s hand.

Her heart was thudding inside her throat, while fear gripped at every fiber of her being. But she couldn’t stop now, not when they were all so close to freedom.

Finally, as she watched Elsie’s head disappear, she headed down herself, feeling thrilled. She could almost taste the freedom on her rough tongue, she could smell it coming to her on the wings of a breeze. Just as her feet touched solid ground, a hand seized her elbow.

“Ye’re nae going anywhere, lassie!”

Chapter Two

The voice belonged to Coyle.

His breath was hot and sour against her cheek as he yanked her back toward himself. Margaret twisted hard, but his grip on her elbow was like an iron vice. His filthy nails dug through the sleeve of her dress and into her skin.

“Too pretty tae toss intae a crowd right now, aye?” he murmured, dragging her in close. “Might be I fetch a fine coin fer ye later. Or maybe I’ll have me fill first. See what all the fuss is about.”

“Let go of me,” she hissed, trying to plant her heel into his instep, but he shifted, dodging the blow. Her heart thundered. “Let… go… of me!”

“Oh, I’ll let go,” he said, grinning with blackened teeth, “but nae till I’ve had a wee bit o’ fun.”

She shoved at his chest, but he barely budged. He was thick with muscle, and sweaty, taller than most, and with the mad gleam of a man who enjoyed fear. Behind them, the deck was still chaos. It was a shower of shouts, steel and smoke, but no one seemed to see her. No one came running to her help. The bastard had chosen his moment well.

He wrenched her around so her back hit the scorched railing, one hand slipping to her waist.

“I like ‘em feisty,” he muttered, in a dark voice that felt like quicksand. “Means they scream nice.”

Margaret went cold. She knew that fear and panic were not her friends. She had to think and act on the first thing that came to mind. She brought her knee up again, sharper this time, aiming for his groin, but he caught her leg mid-thrust and laughed.

“Ach, ye’re a clever one. That’ll earn ye time in chains when this is over.”

“Go tae hell!” she spat at him.

“I’ve lived there all me life, lass,” he sneered. “And I’ll drag ye there with me if I please.”

His hand moved higher.

Nae like this.

But before she could draw breath to scream again, a hand shot out from the smoke, grabbing Coyle by the shoulder and wrenching him backward with a force that made him stumble.

“What in hell—” he started, grabbing a nearby barrel for support.

The other man who faced him wasn’t a slaver. That much was clear in an instant.

His coat was scorched and slashed at the sleeve, the left side dark with blood. Nae his own, Margaret guessed. He was leaner than Coyle, but quicker, as his shoulders squared in a fighter’s stance, revealing a blade in his hand.

Margaret backed away, stumbling into the railing as the two men faced each other. Around them, the ship cracked and roared, smoke climbing like a living thing. A mast gave a terrible groan behind them, as it splintered above the chaos, but neither man looked away.

There was a dark scrape on the stranger’s jaw and a tear at the edge of his sleeve. Still, he stood untouched and ready, the kind of a man who could end a life with his hands and still walk away unbothered.

She should have been afraid, and yet, her body betrayed her. Heat stirred in her belly, reckless and unfamiliar. Her skin flushed as if waking for the first time in what felt like years. Her lips parted and her breathing came faster now, too shallow. She couldn’t look away from his hands, or the way the wind caught the edge of his coat and revealed the lean strength beneath. He was not handsome in the usual sense, but he was striking, nonetheless. He was danger personified in human form, and now, he was fighting for her.

Coyle’s snarl brought her back to the present moment.

“Who the hell are ye?”

Steel met steel with a harsh clang, and the air was suddenly alive with the fury of it. The men proceeded to slash, parry, throw curses between blows. Coyle fought like a brawler: ruthless, untrained, relying on brute strength and rage. But the stranger moved like a wolf. His manner was sharp, clean, and efficient.

Coyle tried to drive him back with his blade flashing, but he missed and nearly lost his footing. The stranger turned the miss into a strike, slicing low. The bastard grunted and staggered, blood blooming across his thigh. He bellowed and lunged, swinging high.

The stranger ducked. Steel flashed again and this time, the blade cut deep across the slaver’s side. The brute stumbled back with his one hand pressed to the wound. Blood oozed through his fingers.

“I’ll gut ye fer this,” he spat.

The man took a single step forward with his blade still raised. “Try.”

Coyle hesitated. Margaret doubted he had the bravado to fight the stranger again. As it turned out, she was right. Still limping, he disappeared into the smoke, leaving behind only the sound of his voice cursing them both.

For a moment, the ship blurred again. It was all one explosion of firelight, chaos and screams still echoing from the far side of the deck. The stranger lowered his blade but kept his eyes surveying the ship. Finally, he turned to Margaret.

“Are ye alright?” he asked.

Margaret stared at him with her throat raw and her heart slamming like a war drum. She didn’t know who he was. And worse yet, she didn’t know if he’d just saved her life or if he meant to take it for himself.

But she nodded just once, slowly.

“Aye,” she rasped. “Fer now.”

That was when the screams quieted. The smoke was still curling in waves across the deck. There were bodies lying scattered. Some were groaning, others were still. She knew what that meant. The mast had split partway, but the blaze hadn’t yet consumed the whole.

The slavers were down. It was the men in the dark coats, the ones she had thoughts of as buyers, that were now standing victorious, their boots streaked in soot and blood.

Margaret clenched her fists. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. She chose terrified.

The man who had pulled Coyle off her still hadn’t sheathed his blade as his gaze swept the deck. A moment later, another man approached him. He was younger, with a cut along his brow and a grin too relaxed for the situation. He nodded toward the slaver’s quarterdeck.

“Ship’s secured. Cargo hold’s clear. A few cowards jumped overboard when the flames started, but we rounded the rest up.”

The stranger gave a single nod, then turned back to Margaret. His dark eyes locked onto hers, and a million little goosebumps erupted throughout her body.

“Dae ye ken where the other slaves are?” he asked.

“Why?” she snarled defensively mustering the last drop of her courage.

She could see there was a bruise forming at the corner of his jaw, darkening already beneath the rough stubble. There was also a smear of blood above his brow. Everything about him was an utter mess, and still, he was undeniably attractive to her, in that maddening, dangerous way.

She had not been touched with kindness in weeks, not since her life had cracked open and spilled into darkness. And now, this man had stepped between her and harm without hesitation.

“Why?” she snarled defensively mustering the last drop of her courage against the onslaught that was this stranger and his damningly wicked smile.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Because they’re still below deck. And it’s burnin’.”

He was right. She knew that some of them had gotten away. But there were others, still left trapped below deck. She hoped that they had managed to free themselves somehow, though.

“Ye plan tae haul them out just tae sell them yerself? Go find them on yer own.”

He blinked in confusion, as if weighing whether to laugh or strike her. But he did neither. Instead, the corner of his mouth twitched, revealing a ghost of something like amusement.

“Feisty,” he murmured.

She hated the way that answer curled inside of her, like warmth and protection, like something she couldn’t let herself want or need.

“Dinnae patronize me.”

“I’m nae.”

She folded her arms. “Good.”

The wiry man beside him made a low sound, which resembled half laugh and half cough, but the stranger only took a slow step toward her. Margaret didn’t back down.

He studied her for a moment. “If I meant tae sell them, I wouldnae have gutted half a crew tae get this ship.”

“Maybe ye just dinnae like tae share,” she said feistily.

There was another flicker of that ghost smile.

“Ye’re right,” he finally said. “I dinnae.”

His tone was calm, mild even, but there was iron beneath it.

“And yet,” he added, “ye’re still breathing. So maybe take the help, lass, and ferget yer pride.”

She narrowed her eyes, while he held her gaze, refusing to look away even for a single moment. Her treacherous mind started to envision him smiling, shirtless, with the wind tugging at his hair, while her fingers traversed the protruding lines of his muscles…

That’s enough!

The truth was that she couldn’t see through him. There was nothing about him that allowed her to tilt the scales to either side. He might have been a ruthless killer, like any of the slavers were, or he might have been a savior. After all, had he not allowed her attacker to run away, granting him his life, although the villain didn’t deserve it?

Finally, with a sharp exhale, she turned away and jerked her chin toward the blackened hatch.

“Down there… port side. They were chained tae the beams, I dinnae ken if they managed tae free themselves like I did.”

All he did was flick his finger in that direction, and several men headed down there. He was still looking at her when he spoke.

“Ye what?”

“I broke me own chains,” she said, more fiercely than she intended. “I—I used the button from me dress and got the lock loose.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Ye opened iron chains with a button?”

“I didnae have a choice.”

The man stared at her for a long, unreadable moment.

“Ye freed yerself.”

She folded her arms across her chest, feeling for some reason, proud of herself that she shocked him with her skills. “That’s what I just said.”

“Ye’ve got sharp teeth,” he pointed out.

“I’ll use them,” she shot back. “If ye try tae put me in chains again.”

“Good.” He stepped toward her again, just once. He was close enough now that she could see the soot streaking his jawline, the tension at the corners of his mouth. “Ye willnae need them… nae with me.”

“Ye expect me tae believe that?” Her voice wavered between bitter and breathless, and it was all because of him. “Ye burn a slaver ship tae the waterline and act like a savior, but I’ve seen enough masks tae ken better.”

“I’m nae wearing one.”

“Right.” She snorted. “And ye just happened tae show up at the perfect moment?”

“That’s what happens,” he explained, “when ye make a habit of hunting men like them.”

Margaret blinked. Her heart still pounded with heat and rage. But he was closer now. And her breath caught for reasons that had nothing to do with smoke.

“Ye really expect me tae trust ye?” she whispered.

“I dinnae expect anything from ye,” he told her with a dismissive shrug of his broad shoulders. “But I’ll tell ye this, I dinnae take slaves. I kill the bastards who do.”

She looked at him… really looked. He was still dangerous. That was the part that didn’t change. It radiated from him in the way he held himself, as if every room, every ship, every battlefield was his to walk through unchallenged. He was darkness wrapped in command, in fury barely restrained. And she hated, no… utterly despised how drawn she was to that.

“I still dinnae trust ye,” she muttered.

He smirked. “Ye’re nae supposed tae.”

And blast him, there it was, that flicker in his eyes again.

She turned away fast, refusing to linger on it. “Just… help the girls.”

The stranger gave a single nod and turned back toward the hatch. But as he disappeared into the smoke again, Margaret’s fists clenched at her sides and she cursed herself.

She had no idea who he was. But if he wasn’t a slaver, he was something else entirely. And that, somehow, worried her even more…

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