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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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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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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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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

The forest behind the MacAlpin Castle, Scotland, 1659

“Four days, Isolde. Four bloody days without a word.”

Rhona MacAlpin urged her chestnut mare deeper into the borderlands, her voice lost to the wind that whipped through the ancient pines. The forest stretched endlessly before her, shadows dancing between moss-covered trunks as pale morning light filtered through the canopy above. Each hoofbeat carried her farther from the crumbling safety of her father’s keep, and closer to answers she prayed she’d find.

Where are ye, sister?

The familiar ache of worry twisted in her chest as she guided her horse along the narrow deer path. Isolde had vanished after sneaking out to attend the forbidden masquerade at Castle Murray, chasing dreams of catching Laird Ciaran MacCraith’s attention. Four agonizing days of pretending their eldest sister lay abed with fever while their father remained blissfully unaware of the deception.

Rhona’s gloved fingers tightened on the reins. The other sisters – Lorna, Isla, and young Aileen – had begged her not to venture out alone, but someone had to search for Isolde. Someone had to bring her home before their father discovered the truth, and their family’s precarious position crumbled entirely.

If she’s hurt… if something’s happened tae her…

The thought sent ice through Rhona’s veins. She pushed it away, focusing instead on the rhythm of her mare’s gait and the crisp autumn air that bit at her cheeks. Her long, dark ginger braid bounced against her back with each stride. She’d dressed for travel in her plainest brown wool dress and worn riding boots, with her father’s old hunting cloak wrapped about her shoulders for warmth.

A flash of blue caught her eye through the trees ahead – the distinctive colors of Clan MacCraith. Rhona’s heart leaped with hope as she spurred her mare forward, weaving between the towering pines toward the glimpse of tartan.

“Excuse me!” she called out, breaking through the tree line into a small clearing.

But the space stood empty save for a torn piece of fabric caught on a low branch. Rhona dismounted, her boots crunching on fallen leaves as she approached the scrap of blue and silver cloth.

A twig snapped behind her.

Rhona swung around, her hand instinctively moving to the small dagger at her belt. Three men on horseback emerged from the forest, their faces hard as granite beneath shaggy, dirty hair. None wore clan colors she recognized, though their bearing spoke of warriors accustomed to violence.

“Well, well,” the largest man drawled, his scarred face splitting into a cold smile. “What have we here, lads?”

Rhona’s mouth went dry, but she lifted her chin with practiced defiance. “I was just–”

“Aye, what are ye daein’, lass?” The man’s eyes swept over her with calculating interest. “Out here, all alone, searchin’ fer somethin’. Or someone?”

“I’m simply returnin’ home from visiting friends.” The lie came smoothly, though her heart hammered against her ribs. “If ye’ll excuse me–”

“Nae so fast.” A younger man with a jagged scar running from his left ear to his right jaw, urged his horse closer. “Ye wouldnae happen to be a MacAlpin, lass, would ye?”

Ice flooded Rhona’s veins. These weren’t mere bandits seeking coin – they knew exactly who they were hunting.

“I dinnae ken what ye mean.” She backed toward her mare, measuring the distance with desperate calculation.

The tallest of the three laughed, his voice unnaturally deep as it rumbled through the morning air. “Come now, nay need fer games. Red hair, blue eyes, ridin’ alone in MacAlpin territory… I can recognize a MacAlpin sister when I see her.”

Rhona’s voice came out steadier than she felt. “I think ye have me confused with someone else.”

“I think nae.” The leader dismounted with malicious grace, his hand resting on his sword hilt. “Our laird’s been most eager to make the acquaintance of the MacAlpin daughters. Particularly the eldest.”

Laird Wallace.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. Douglas Wallace had been pressuring her father for months, demanding a marriage alliance that would give him control of their vast, but poorly managed, lands. Her father had refused repeatedly, so Wallace was clearly tired of negotiation.

“I told ye, I’m nae–”

“Aye. But ye are.” The man’s smile turned predatory. “The question is… are ye the eldest?”

Rhona’s mind raced. If they believed her to be Isolde, it might buy her sister time – assuming Isolde was even still alive to need it.

“And if I were?” She asked, surprised with her own boldness.

“Then ye’d be comin’ with us tae meet yer future husband.” The leader took another step closer. “Laird Wallace has been most patient, but his patience has limits.”

“I’d rather wed a diseased goat than Douglas Wallace.”

The sarcastic comment escaped before she could stop it, earning harsh laughter from all three men.

“Spirited,” the second man observed. “The laird will enjoy breakin’ that fire.”

Rage flared in Rhona’s chest, burning away the last of her fear. “Ye can tell yer laird that nay McAlpin daughter will ever willingly wed him. Our faither–”

The words escaped her before she could stop them, and ice flooded her veins as she realized what she’d just revealed.

Fool! Ye’ve just told them exactly who ye are.

The leader’s eyes sharpened with triumph, his scarred face splitting into a predatory grin. “MacAlpin, is it? Well, well… Faither’s nae here, is he?” the leader’s voice turned dangerously soft. “Just bonnie old ye, all alone in the dangerous borderlands. Anythin’ could happen tae a lass out here by herself, mind.”

Rhona’s hand closed around the dagger’s hilt as she continued backing toward her horse. “Me faither will hunt ye down like the dogs ye are.”

“All he’ll ken is that his daughter rode out alone and never came home.” The man shrugged. “Tragic accident, that. Wild lands these, filled with dangerous creatures…”

“Aye.” The tall one added with a leer. “Some even walk on two legs!”

Rhona’s back hit her mare’s warm flank. The horse shifted nervously, sensing the tension crackling through the clearing like lightning before a storm.

“Easy, lass,” the leader crooned, as if gentling a spooked animal. “Come quietly now, and no harm will come tae ye. Fight, and… well, the laird prefers his brides unmarked, but he’s nae particular about it.”

Like hell.

Rhona vaulted onto her mare’s back with practiced ease, her skirts billowing around her legs as the gathered the reins. “Give yer laird a message from the MacAlpin clan,” she called out, her voice ringing clear through the forest. “We’d rather see our lands salted and barren than under Wallace rule!”

She dug her heels into her mare’s sides, and the horse leaped forward with a burst of speed that sent leaves and dust scattering in their wake.

“After her!” the leader roared from behind her. “Dinnae let her escape!”

The thunder of hoofbeats exploded through the forest as all three men gave chase. Rhona leaned low over her mare’s neck, urging every ounce of speed from the valiant animal as they wove between towering pines and ancient oaks. Branches whipped past her face, catching at her cloak and hair, but she pressed on with desperate determination.

Faster, girl. We have tae reach the main road.

Her mare’s breathing grew labored as they climbed a steep ridge, foam flecking the animal’s neck. Behind them, the pursuit grew closer – these men rode destriers bred for war, not the lighter horses favored by MacAlpin women.

“There!” one of the men shouted. “She’s headin’ fer the old kirk road!”

Rhona’s heart sank. They knew these lands as well as she did, perhaps better. Every shortcut she might take, they would anticipate.

A crossbow bold whistled past her ear, burying itself in an oak trunk with a solid thunk. Her mare shied violently, nearly unseating her, and precious seconds were lost as Rhona fought to regain control.

“Take her down if ye must!” she leader bellowed.

So much fer unmarked brides.

Rhona yanked hard on the reins, sending her mare plunging down a steep embankment towards narrow stream. Icy water splashed against her legs as they crashed through the shallows, but the treacherous footing slowed their pursuers.

For a moment, hope flickered in her chest. The ridge ahead led to MacAlpin lands proper – if she could only reach the main road, there might be clansmen about, or at least travelers who would bear witness.

Then her mare stumbled. The exhausted animal’s front leg caught a hidden root, sending both horse and rider tumbling in a tangle of limbs and skirts. Rhona hit the ground hard, the breath driven from her lungs as she rolled through damp leaves and moss. Pain exploded through her shoulder where she’d struck a fallen log.

“Get her!” a triumphant shout echoed through the trees.

Rhona struggled to her feet, her head spinning as she fought to orient herself. Her mare lay nearby, sides heaving but apparently uninjured. Around them, the forest seemed to spin as the three men approached on foot, having dismounted to navigate the steep terrain.

“Foolish lassie!” the leader said, though he sounded more amused than angry. “Could’ve broken yer pretty little neck with a fall like that.”

“Perhaps next time ye’ll listen when yer betters speak,” the second man added.

Rhona’s hands found her dagger, and she drew it with shaking fingers. The blade caught the dappled light filtering through the forest canopy, though she knew it would do little good against three armed warriors.

“Stay back,” she warned, though her voice trembled with exhaustion and pain.

“Or what? Ye’ll prick us with that wee blade?” The youngest man laughed. “Come now, dinnae make this harder than it needs tae be.”

“I told ye. I will never go willingly.”

“Who said anythin’ about willingly?”

The leader lunged forward with startling speed. Rhona flung her arm around wildly with her dagger, feeling the blade bate flesh as the man cursed and jerked back. Blood welled from a shallow cut across his forearm, staining his sleeve crimson.

“Ye wee vixen!” He backhanded her across her pale face with stunning force.

Stars exploded across Rhona’s vision as she crashed to the ground, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard the dagger clatter away into the underbrush.

“That’s fer drawin’ blood,” the man snarled, cradling his wounded limb.

“Careful,” the scarred man warned. “The laird wants her in one piece.”

“Aye, but a bruise or two willnae matter.” The leader grabbed Rhona’s arm, hauling her roughly to her feet. “She’ll learn to mind her manners soon enough.”

Rhona’s legs trembled beneath her as the world swayed dangerously. Blood trickled from her split lip, and her cheek throbbed where his had made contact. Still, she managed to lift her chin with the last dregs of defiance.

“Me faither will come fer me,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Aye, perhaps he will.” The leader’s grip tightened painfully on her arm. “But by then, ye’ll be wedded and bedded, and there’ll be naught he can dae about it.”

The crude words sent waves of revulsion through her, but Rhona forced herself to remain upright. She wouldn’t give these animals the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.

“Mount up,” the leader commanded his men. “We’ve wasted enough time chasin’ this wildcat through the forest.”

They hauled her toward their horses with rough efficiency. The tall man boosted her onto his destrier, climbing up behind her and wrapping one strong arm around her waist to prevent escape. The position left her trapped against his chest, his breath hot and foul against her neck.

Rhona tried memorizing their route as they began to ride. Every landmark, every turn – if she ever got the chance to escape, she would need to know the way home.

The journey passed in a blur of discomfort and growing dread. Her captor’s grip never loosened, and the leader set a punishing pace that left no opportunity for rest or second thoughts. They avoided the main roads, following hunter’s tracks and deer paths that would leave no trace for potential rescuers to follow. As they rode on, the familiar forests of her childhood gave way to wilder, more desolate terrain. This was Wallace territory – lands she’d heard described, but never seen. Rocky outcroppings replaced the gentle hills of home, and the very air seemed to carry a different scent.

“There,” the leader pointed ahead with his uninjured arm. “Castle Wallace.”

Rhona’s heart sank as the fortress came into view. Unlike her family’s crumbling keep, this stronghold radiated power and menace. Massive stone walls rose from a craggy hilltop, their surfaces darkened with age and weather. Banners snapped in the wind above the battlements, displaying the Wallace colors in stark reminder of whose domain this was.

God above help me.

The gates stood open as their small party approached, guards stepping aside with casual familiarity. Clearly, this was not the first time these men had brought unwilling ‘guests’ to their laird’s attention. They clattered into the courtyard, where servants scattered like startled birds. Rhona found herself hauled down from the horse and marched through corridors that seemed designed to intimidate – high ceilings, cold stone walls hung with weapons and battle trophies, and everywhere the sense of barely contained violence.

“Wait here,” the leader commanded as they reached an enormous set of oak doors banded with iron.

Rhona stood between two of her captors, trying to project dignity despite her torn dress and disheveled appearance. Her shoulder ached from the fall, and she could still taste blood from her split lip, but she refused to show weakness to whatever monster awaited beyond those doors.

Suddenly, the door swung open with ominous creaking.

“Laird Wallace,” the leader called out as they were ushered into a great hall dominated by a massive fireplace. “We’ve brought ye a prize.”

The man who rose from the chair before the fire was nothing like Rhona expected. Douglas Wallace was tall and lean, rather than brutish, with iron-gray hair and cold blue eyes that seemed to strip away pretense with a single glance. He might have been handsome once, before cruelty had carved permanent lines around his mouth and eyes.

“Have ye now?” His voice was cultured, almost pleasant. “And what manner of prize have me faithful hounds retrieved?”

“A MacAlpin lass, me laird. Found her ridin’ alone in the borderlands, bold as brass.”

Those pale eyes fixed on Rhona with calculating interest. “And which MacAlpin daughter graces me hall?”

Rhona lifted her chin, meeting his stare with all the defiance she could muster. “I am Rhona MacAlpin, second daughter of Laird MacAlpin. And I demand ye release me immediately.”

Wallace chuckled, circling her slowly, like a predator evaluating prey. “Demand?” He jested, pausing directly in front of her. “I was hoping tae meet yer elder sister. The heir, as it were.”

“Isolde is–” Rhona caught herself before revealing her sister’s disappearance. “Isolde is well protected at our family’s keep.”

“Is she?” Wallace’s smile was winter-cold. “How disappointin’. I had such hopes fer a profitable marriage alliance.”

Relief flooded through Rhona. If he wanted Isolde specifically, perhaps he would simply release her as worthless to his plans.

“Since yer nae the bride I was expectin’,” Wallace continued, “I suppose ye’re of little use tae me…”

Hope flared in her chest.

“Still,” he mused, tapping one finger against his thin lips, “second daughters have their value. A backup bride, as it were, should something happen tae the first one.”

The hope died as quickly as it had bloomed.

“Take her tae the dungeon,” Wallace commanded with casual indifference. “See that she’s fed enough to keep her alive. We wouldnae want damaged goods, should I need tae use her as leverage.”

“Nay!” Rhona lunged forward, only to be caught by rough hands. “Ye cannae dae this! Me faither will–”

“Yer faither will negotiate reasonably fer his eldest daughter’s hand, or he’ll find himself with one less bairn to worry about.” Wallace had already turned away, dismissing her as easily as he might have done away with a bothersome insect. “Either way, the MacAlpin lands will be mine.”

As the guards dragged her from the hall, Rhona’s last glimpse was of Douglas Wallace settling back into his chair with the satisfied air of a man whose plans were proceeding exactly as expected.

The dungeon lay deep beneath the castle, accessible only through a maze of narrow stone corridors that seemed designed to crush hope along with the spirit. With each step she took downward the air became cooler, taking her further away from light, from freedom, from any possibility of rescue. The air felt damp and her breath misted in small clouds before her face.

“Home sweet home,” one of the guards said with mock cheer as he unlocked a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands.

The cell beyond was small and dark, furnished only with a thin straw pallet and a bucket that served purposes she preferred not to contemplate. A tiny, barred window high in one wall provided the only light – a dim gray square that spoke of approaching evening.

“Sweet dreams, lassie,” the guard leered as he shoved her inside.

The door slammed shut with awful finality, followed by the scrape of the heavy bar falling into place – sealing her fate. Rhona found herself alone in the dimness, surrounded by stone walls that seemed to press closer with each passing moment.

She sank onto the stone pallet, finally allowing tears to fall now that no one could witness her weakness. Four days ago, her greatest worry had been Isolde’s mysterious absence. Now her sister might be dead, and Rhona herself faced a future as either Douglas Wallace’s unwilling bride, or a bargaining chip in his quest for MacAlpin lands.

What have I done?

Outside her tiny window, the last light of day faded into darkness, and Rhona MacAlpin settled in to wait for whatever dawn might bring.

Chapter Two

Three months later, Castle Wallace

“How long has she been down here?”

The unfamiliar voice drifted through the stone walls like a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman. Rhona stirred from her huddled position on the straw pallet, blinking against the sudden torchlight that spilled through the bars of her cell door. After all that time in that cursed dungeon, she’d grown accustomed to the steady rhythm of her captivity – thin gruel twice daily, emptying of the waste bucket once a week, and blessed silence between the guard’s infrequent visits.

But this voice was different. Deeper than the guard’s, with an authority that made her skin prickle with awareness.

“Three months, maybe more, me laird,” came the nervous reply the guard.

Me laird?

Rhona pressed herself against the cold stone wall, straining to hear more.

“And nay one thought to inform me that we were holdin’ a prisoner?”

The edge of displeasure in those words sent a strange flutter through Rhona’s chest. She’d heard variations of that tone from her father when he discovered incompetence among his men, but this voice carried something different – a quality that spoke of controlled power.

“We… we thought ye kent, Laird Wallace. The previous laird said she was important… fer negotiations.”

Laird Wallace.

Rhona’s heart pounded with confusion and fear. Previous laird? What had happened to Douglas? And who was this man who now commanded with such quiet authority?

“Open it.”

The command was quiet, but it carried the weight of absolute authority. Rhona heard the scrape of the heavy bar being lifted, then the creak of ancient hinges as her cell door swung wide.

Torchlight flooded the small space, forcing her to shield her eyes with one trembling hand. Through the brilliant haze, she made out a tall figure silhouetted in the doorway – broad shoulders that filled the frame, confident stance, and an indefinable presence that seemed to be on the verge of consuming all the air in the cramped cell.

“God’s blood,” the voice breathed, and now she could hear the shock in it. “What have they done tae ye, lass?”

Rhona lowered her hand slowly, squinting against the light as her vision adjusted. The man before her was nothing like Douglas Wallace. Where the former laird had been lean and cruel, this one possessed the powerful build of a Highland warrior in his prime – all corded muscle and masculine strength that made her suddenly acutely aware of her own fragility. Dark brown hair caught the light with hints of auburn, and when their eyes met, she found herself drowning in the greenest gaze she’d ever seen – like deep, mossy forest pools touched by summer sunlight, framed by thick, dark lashes that only enhanced his rugged appeal.

Saints preserve me, he is magnificent.

The treacherous thought slipped through her defenses before she could stop it. Even in her weakened state, she couldn’t ignore the way her pulse quickened at the sight of him, her treacherous body responding to pure masculine magnetism. He was perhaps her own age, with strong features carved by some divine sculptor – a straight nose, firm jaw darkened with stubble, and lips that were neither too full nor too thin, but perfectly shaped for…

Stop.

She forced her wayward thoughts back to safer ground. He was tall enough that she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes, his presence overwhelming in the small space. Battle scars decorated his thick forearms and hands like badges of honor – evidence of countless fights survived – while tattoos wound around his left bicep. But there was something in his expression that spoke of honor rather than brutality, a gentleness in those remarkable eyes that made her stomach flutter with dangerous awareness.

“Who are ye?” she whispered; her voice rough from disuse.

“Ian Wallace.” He stepped into the cell, his powerful frame making the space even smaller. His scent enveloped her – leather and pine mixed with something uniquely male that made her pulse race and her skin prickle with awareness. The way he moved spoke of a predator’s grace, all controlled strength and lethal capability, yet when those green eyes fixed on her, she saw only gentle concern. “I’m the new laird of this clan.”

“New?” The word escaped her before she could stop it. “What happened tae Douglas?”

Something flickered in those green eyes – pain, perhaps or regret. “He fell in battle. I’ve inherited… this mess.”

“Another Wallace.” Bitterness crept into her voice despite her weakness. “Come to gloat over yer predecessor’s prize?”

“I’ve come tae understand why a lass is wastin’ away in me dungeon that I never kenned existed.”

The gentle tone caught her off guard. In her three months of captivity, no one had spoken to her with anything approaching kindness.

“What’s yer name, lass?” he asked softly, crouching down to her level.

Rhona hesitated, but something in his manner made her want to trust him.

“Rhona.”

“Just Rhona?” His lips quirked in what might have been a smile. “Nay clan name?”

She said nothing, watching him warily. Douglas Wallace had known exactly who she was and why she was valuable. This new laird’s ignorance might be her only advantage.

Ian seemed to sense her reluctance. This close, she could see the fine lines around his eyes that spoke of a man who’d spent his life squinting against sun and wind. A small scar bisected his left eyebrow, and his shirt stretched taut across his broad chest with each breath. Heat radiated from his body, and she found herself fighting the insane urge to lean closer, to seek the warmth and strength he represented.

“Fair enough. Can ye tell me why ye were imprisoned?”

“Ask yer men. I’m sure they’ll spin ye a fine tale.”

“I’m asking ye.”

The simple statement, delivered without threat or demand, nearly undid her, but she did not answer him.

“Christ.” Ian scrubbed a hand through his thick hair. She noticed that his fingers were strong and capable – a swordsman’s hands, yet gentle when they’d gestured toward her. The urge to reach out and touch him, to verify that such masculine perfection was real, shocked her with its intensity. “Ye’re highborn?”

It wasn’t a question. Her manner of speech, despite months of deprivation, still carried the refined cadence of noble upbringings.

“Daes it matter?”

“Aye. It matters.” He stood abruptly and the full effect of his height and breadth hit her anew – he had to be at least six feet of solid muscle and masculine appeal. When he turned slightly, she caught a glimpse of more tattoos snaking down his back beneath the white shirt. Her mouth went dry at the thought of tracing those patterns with her fingertips. “Though, high born or nae, nay one deserves tae be treated like this.”

For a moment, his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her mouth dry.

“Tristan!”

Ian’s most trusted advisor and council member materialized suddenly, clearly having stayed within earshot. “Aye, me laird.”

“Send word tae the kitchens – I want a proper meal served immediately. Hot food, fresh bread, and clean water fer a bath.”

Rhona’s stomach clenched at the mention of food. Three months of thin gruel had left her considerably thinner than her already petite frame could afford.

As he hurried off, Ian turned back to her. “We’ll get ye cleaned up and fed, then we’ll decide what’s tae be done.”

Once they reached the servant’s stairs, Ian turned to a young servant girl who had appeared as if summoned. “Moira, help the lass wash up proper. See that she has everythin’ she needs.”

“Aye, me laird.” Moira bobbed a quick curtsy. “Right away.”

As Ian departed, Rhona found herself led to a chamber she’d never expected to see – guest quarters with a proper bed, clean linens, and a fire crackling in the hearth. The transformation from the dungeon felt like stepping into another world.

“I’ll prepare a nice hot bath fer ye, miss.” Moira said cheerfully, bustling about the room. “Ye’ll feel much better once ye’re properly clean. Let me just fetch the soap and towels from the stores.”

The moment Moira’s footsteps had faded down the corridor leaving her alone, Rhona moved. This might be her only chance at freedom. Her heart hammered as she slipped from the chamber, bare feet silent on the cold stone floors.

She remembered the way from her arrival – down the wide corridor, past the great hall, through the courtyard. The castle seemed different now, less oppressive, but she pushed such thoughts aside and focused only on escape.

’Tis now or never!

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she slipped from the chamber, every instinct screaming at her to move quickly before someone discovered her absence. The corridor stretched endlessly before her, shadows dancing in the flickering torchlight. Each step felt like a thunderclap in silence, though her bare feet made barely no sound on the cold stone floors.

Dinnae look back, Just keep movin’. Get tae the forest.

She fled through the corridors like a wraith, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps as she navigated the maze of passages. Past tapestries that seemed to track her escape, past doorways that might hide guards, past everything that represented her captivity. The night air hit her face as she burst through a side entrance, cool and sharp with the promise of freedom.

The courtyard stretched ahead in the gathering dusk, torches flickering in their sconces. The main gates were impossible, but beside them she spotted a smaller postern door. She threw herself against it – and miraculously, it opened. Someone had left it unbarred.

In the distance, the dark line of forest called, promising concealment.

“Rhona!”

Ian’s voice echoed behind her, filled with concern rather than anger. She didn’t look back, breaking into a desperate run down the rocky slope leading toward the forest. Her torn dress tangled around her legs, but she gathered the wool and pressed on, her weakened body trembling with the effort.

“This way,” Ian’s voice carried on the evening wind. “She’ll head fer the forest.”

The dark line of trees offered her only hope of concealment. Rhona plunged into the woodland, branches catching at her hair and dress while her red hair matted against her pale skin. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she stumbled through the underbrush, torchlight flickering behind her through the trees.

She stumbled to a halt, her breath coming in ragged wasps, when she spotted armed figures between the trees ahead – at least six men wearing tartans she couldn’t recognize in the dim light. As she struggled to see, Ian emerged from the shadows with his men flanking him, their weapons drawn but not threatening.

“Easy, lass,” his voice was gentle despite the chase she’d led him in. “Nay one wants tae hurt ye.”

“Stay back,” she panted, though the world swayed dangerously around her. “I’ll nae go back tae that dungeon!”

“Ye willnae.” Ian held up his hands peacefully, those green eyes filled with understanding. “I gave ye me word. But these lands are crawlin’ with enemies who’d show ye far less mercy.”

As if summoned by his warning, harsh voices erupted from the darkness around them. The same figures she had spotted before, materializing between the trees – at least six men wearing tartan she couldn’t recognize, their faces hard with violent intent.

“Ian Wallace,” their leader snarled. “Perfect timing.”

Ian’s sword was in his hand instantly, his men forming a protective circle around Rhona with practiced efficiency. The gentle laird vanished, replaced by a warrior whose very presence radiated lethal capability.

“MacPherson,” Ian said, his voice deadly calm. “Ye’re trespassin’ on Wallace lands.”

“Am I?” The man’s hand rested on his sword hit with obvious threat. “Last I heard, these lands were in dispute. Poor Douglas died so unexpectedly, and there’s been such confusion about succession…”

“The king settled that matter. I suggest ye remember it, Lachlan.”

“Oh, I remember many things,” the MacPherson warrior’s gaze fixed on Rhona with a calculating interest that made her skin crawl. “Including arrangements that might still be honored by more legitimate claimants to these lands.”

Steel rang against steel as the first enemy lunged forward. Ian moved like liquid lightning, his blade singing through the air as he parried and struck with lethal precision.

Saints preserve me, he fights like a pure force of nature.

His powerful frame flowed from one deadly motion to the next, muscles rippling beneath his shirt as he spun and slashed. Even in the heat of battle, there was something almost beautiful about the way he moved – like a deadly dance choreographed by the gods themselves. The sound of his breathing, slow and steady despite the violence surrounding him, sent an unexpected thrill racing through her veins

How can he be so calm? How can he be so controlled when death might be only inches away?

Around them, the fight erupted in deadly earnest as Ian’s men engaged the attackers. The clash of metal on metal filled the air, punctuated by grunts of effort and cries of pain. But Rhona found herself unable to look away, transfixed by the graceful, predatory way Ian moved – every step calculated, every strike devastatingly effective. Ian’s sword slit one of the men’s arm, and Rhona found herself watching with wide eyes.

Ian fought with the grace of a born warrior. He moved like water, his sword seeming to anticipate his opponent’s attacks. Two MacPherson men fell to his blade with quick succession, their lives ending in a bloody splatter as Rhona shut her eyes against the gruesome sight.

“Fall back!” the MacPherson leader shouted. “This isnae over, Wallace!”

The surviving attackers melted back into darkness as swiftly as they’d appeared. Ian turned to Rhona immediately, his green eyes scanning her for any sign of injury. “Are ye hurt?”

She shook her head mutely, overwhelmed by the violence she’d witnessed.

“We need to get back to the castle,” he said urgently, his hand finding her arm with gentle, but implacable strength. “These lands are overrun with enemies seeking to exploit the chaos Douglas left behind.”

“Good,” Rhona said before she could stop herself, “’Tis good that yer enemies are closing in.” The words escaping her lips like a confession before exhaustion claimed her.

Ian went very still. In the flickering torchlight, she watched understanding dawn in his remarkable eyes, followed by something that looked almost like disappointment.

“Aye,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I suppose it would be… if ye carried hatred fer everythin’ Wallace.”

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Best selling books of Lyla

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Ian Wallace never wanted to be laird, but with a dying clan to save, he has no time for complications—especially not the fierce, beautiful prisoner hidden in his own new castle. She’s a MacAlpin, born of the blood he’s sworn to hate but the fire in her eyes stirs something deeper than duty. He should send her away. Instead, he’ll risk everything to keep her.

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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 1

North Berwick Priory, 1646

The bells tolled their usual mournful song, a sound that had once made Alexandra flinch. Now, it barely stirred her. What did make her stir, rather violently, was the sight of Lady Margaret MacLean snoring into her pillow, blissfully unaware that she was ten minutes late for prayers.

Alexandra threw back the threadbare curtain surrounding the cot and leaned in close. “Margaret, if ye dinnae get up this instant, I swear on all the saints, I’ll pour this basin over yer head.”

Margaret groaned, rolling onto her back. “Ye’re bluffin’.”

“Aye?” Alexandra lifted the washbasin from the stand with both hands and tilted it just enough to let a droplet fall. It splashed against Margaret’s forehead. The girl shrieked.

“Saints preserve me!”

Alexandra grinned, setting the basin down with exaggerated care. “Sweet morning tae ye, too, Lady Margaret.”

Margaret groaned again, this time with more theatrical flair, and sat up. “Ye ken, sometimes I think ye enjoy this too much.”

“Only sometimes?.”

They moved quickly now, slipping into their coarse wool habits and fastening the simple rope belts at their waists with practiced ease. Alexandra adjusted Margaret’s veil, her fingers deft and a little rough as she tucked the last strands of hair beneath the stiff linen coif. Margaret, still muttering under her breath, reached over to smooth Alexandra’s wimple into place.

It was an odd kind of intimacy they’d developed over the years. A sort of friendship, with one girl living as the other’s shadow. Alexandra had never once let Margaret take a punishment meant for her, and Margaret, in return, never questioned Alexandra’s orders. Not when it counted.

When they stepped into the main corridor, the mask slipped into place. Other girls greeted them… “Morning, Alexandra,” to Margaret, and “Lady Margaret,” to Alexandra. It had taken years for Alexandra to answer to the wrong name without flinching. Now, it was second nature, it fit like an old boot. Too worn to replace. Too snug to shake off.

Sometimes she wondered if she’d ever answer to her real name again, if she would ever truly remember who that girl had been.

***

The sun hadn’t yet chased the chill from the air, and the harsh cold of the priory clung to the stone like a stubborn curse. Alexandra pulled her shawl tighter as they made their way to the courtyard garden. Chores awaited, as always; back-breaking, finger-numbing, soul-wilting chores.

“Dae ye think they’ll ever stop punishin’ us fer a war we didnae start?” Margaret asked as they reached the weed-choked beds.

Alexandra crouched beside a patch of stubborn thistle. “If they dae, what would the Prioress dae with all that spare time? She might have tae find joy in her life. Imagine that horror.”

Margaret snorted. “Blasphemy.”

They worked side by side, knuckles grazing dirt, silence settling between them like old cloth. Other women joined them, some cloistered, others like them, temporary ghosts in the church’s care. The scent of wet soil and morning dew clung to the air. Birds chirped cautiously, as though they too feared the wrath of the Prioress.

Margaret had been assigned to laundry duty that morning, but as always, she’d wandered back over to gossip. Alexandra gave her a sideways glance as Margaret sank to her knees beside her in the garden.

They looked enough alike that most didn’t question it. Same chestnut-brown hair that frizzed in the damp, same pale skin that the sun hadn’t touched in years, same quick mouth and stubborn chin. But where Margaret’s eyes held softness, curiosity, mischief, Alexandra’s had learned how to guard themselves. How to flinch without moving.

It had worked too well. They’d played the parts for so long that no one questioned who was who anymore.

Not even Margaret.

But Alexandra would guard that secret with every fiber of her soul, not out of fear, but because she owed Margaret more than she could ever repay. Margaret’s family had placed her there to be hidden, but in doing so, they’d saved Alexandra too. Without that twist of fate, Alexandra would’ve died cold and forgotten in some alley. Instead, she’d been given a name. A bed. A second chance.

And in return, she’d made herself into Margaret’s shadow. Her shield.

“Did ye hear about Sister Brigid and the cook?” Margaret snapped Alexandra out of her reverie, “I swear on the Virgin’s toes, I saw her sneak two tarts right into her habit yesterday.”

Alexandra snorted under her breath. “If ye’re caught idle again, they’ll hang ye up by the heels and make ye sweep the bell tower. And ye ken ye shouldnae swear.”

“Oh hush, ye always fret like an old maid. Besides, I like yer company better.”

Alexandra arched a brow, her voice a low mutter. “Flattery willnae save ye when the Prioress––”

“Alexandra!”

The voice cracked through the garden like a whip.

Margaret scrambled to her feet. Alexandra rose with her, shielding her instinctively.

“Back tae yer post,” the Prioress snapped. “This is the third time ye’ve been caught slackin’.”

Margaret ducked her head and fled.

The Prioress turned her flint-hard gaze on Alexandra but said nothing. She didn’t need to. Alexandra lowered her eyes and resumed her weeding.

She hated the Priory most in those moments. The endless watching. The judgment. The fear carved into every corner of the stones. She remembered too well the last time Margaret had been found gossiping instead of working. Alexandra had taken the blame, claimed she’d asked for help. She’d scrubbed the chapel floors for a week, knees blistered, palms raw.

Even now, she didn’t regret it. It was what she was brought there to do: protect Margaret. And she’d do it again.

As she toiled, the sharp clap of footsteps echoed behind her. Alexandra didn’t look up, she didn’t need to.

Margaret.

She could never stay away when there was a tasty morsel of gossip to be shared. She crouched down beside her, a tinkle already making its way to the corner of her eyes.

“Lady Margaret,” The Prioress. barked, voice like a whip crack, she had come back. “That root bed should’ve been cleared by now. Or are ye waitin’ fer divine intervention tae weed it fer ye?”

She turned to Margaret “What are ye still daeing here?”

Margaret startled, fumbling her grip on a spade she had quickly grabbed.

Alexandra straightened, dirt-streaked and tired. “It was me fault, Prioress. I asked fer her help tae work the roots properly. I’m nae used tae thick thistle.”

The Prioress narrowed her eyes. “Ye speakin’ fer her now, Lady Margaret?”

“Just takin’ responsibility fer me own actions, is all.”

“Hmph.” The woman turned her stare on Margaret, who wisely kept her eyes low. “I’ve half a mind tae send ye both scrubbing the privy tiles.”

Alexandra stepped forward, chin high. “Aye, then best send me alone. She’s—”

She stopped herself. Nearly too late.

“She’s sensitive tae the smell, she will faint again, is all.”

The Prioress stared long and hard before muttering a prayer under her breath and walking off.

Margaret exhaled shakily. “Ye didnae have tae dae that.”

“Didn’t I? One more minute of her glare and ye’d have burst into tears and confessed yer lineage.”

Margaret grimaced. “I was fine.”

Alexandra smiled, returning to her weeding. “Of course ye were. Brave as a lion.”

But her hands trembled as they returned to the soil. The Prioress’s words, the memory of beatings long past, settled like frost in her bones. She’d learned young what happened to girls who couldn’t hold their tongues, and younger still what happened when ye tried to defend someone who didn’t understand the cost. A crow called from the chapel roof, ominous and loud.

Alexandra’s knees throbbed with every shift of weight, her palms blistered and raw beneath layers of grime, and her back pulsed with a dull, angry fire. But still, she worked. Because that was the only thing she’d ever known how to do.

Life had never offered her softness. No silks, no soothing words, no shelter from the storm. It had offered her bruised knuckles, an unyielding will, and the stubborn marrow-deep grit to survive. She had learned young that comfort was not a gift, it was a gamble. One she’d lost too many times to count.

So now, even the smallest mercies felt like riches. A clean room. Warm porridge in the morning for her aching belly. Walls of stone thick enough to mute the biting wind that had chased her while she was on the streets. A bed with a blanket…

That one I say me hail Mary fer every day.

Here in the priory, these things were more than blessings. They were currency.

She had only just returned to her duties, delicately weeding the herb garden, when she heard it.

The thunder of hooves.

Not one. Not two. Too many. They came fast and hard, descending the hill like a wave of fury.

Alexandra’s spine stiffened. Her fingers curled tighter around the spade as her head jerked up, eyes straining toward the priory gates.

Men.

The kind of men whose arrival never brought good.

A chorus of drunken shouts echoed after the hooves, rough, slurred, aggressive. There was steel in those voices. And spit. And something worse… intent.

Her breath hitched.

Nay. Saints, nay. Nae again. Nae like last time. Please, nae like last time.

That time had been bad enough, three men from the nearby town, slurring and shoving, trying to rip open barrels and find something worth taking. But they’d been stupid. Loud and easily frightened off by the sudden arrival of the village watch.

But this, this was different. Alexandra could feel it in her bones. There were more of them now.. And no one was coming.

The priory had no guards, no gates that could truly hold. Just prayer, stone walls, and women. That was all.

Then came the sound.

The creak of iron hinges being forced. And then, a slam.

A voice, deep and coarse, cut through the air like a blade. “Where’s the silver, ye holy crows?” “Where’s the gold ye hoard fer yer saints?”

Crash. A barrel toppled.

Crash. A shelf splintered. Glass shattered. A loud scream pierced the air.

Sister Mary?

Alexandra dropped the spade. It hit the dirt with a dull thud. Her hands trembled, but her legs wouldn’t move. She stared, wide-eyed, toward the cloister arch, her body locked between instinct and horror.

Two of them appeared. One was rummaging through sacks of grain, hurling them aside like garbage. The other was laughing, a wet, sloshing sound, as he kicked open a storeroom door. They smelled of ale, sweat, and something sharper… desperation.

One had a rusted sword. The other, a length of chain, wrapped tight in his fist.

“There’s naught here,” one of them spat. “Same as last time.”

The second man’s smile curved like a knife. “Then we take something else.”

And then he looked up. His gaze swept the courtyard like a predator searching for movement.

“The girls.”

Alexandra felt the words before she processed them, felt them lodge in her spine like an arrow. Her blood went cold.

Her legs moved to the sound before a single thought pierced the loud ringing in her ear. She ran.

Her sandals slapped against the stone as she sprinted for the chapel corridor, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

She found Margaret by the entry arch, frozen, eyes wide and unblinking. She must have ran for safety in the midst of the chaos. Two younger girls clung to her robes like frightened lambs.

“Come on! We have to move!” Alexandra hissed, grabbing her by the wrist.

Margaret blinked as if waking from a trance. “Wh-what’s happening?”

“They’re here fer us. Nay time. Run!”

The sounds behind them grew louder… shouts, crashes, footsteps gaining speed.

Alexandra yanked Margaret forward, dragging the three girls into motion. They bolted across the courtyard, dodging buckets, leaping over basins, the wind slapping against their faces, slicing into their skin.

Her lungs burned. Her legs screamed. But she couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop.

Then, through the haze of panic, an idea struck her. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t safe. But it was all they had.

Margaret’s face was white from the wind. “What dae we dae?”

“Ye run back the other way. Now. Find Sister Agnes and get inside,” she ordered breathlessly. “I’ll draw them away. Run.”

“Nae without ye.”

Alexandra’s glare was sharp. “If ye stay, they’ll take both of us. Now move.”

The two other girls veered with her. Alexandra ran the other way. Into the woods.

Her body screamed in protest. Her mind spun with panic. But she had to lead them away. She was used to running anyway. Used to being hunted.

But this time, she didn’t have the cover of a city or the anonymity of streets. It was just trees, air, and her.

A root caught her boot and she tumbled, knees slamming hard into the earth. Pain burst through her legs. Blood smeared her shins. She gritted her teeth and pushed up. Cannae stop now.

She had run farther in worse shoes, from worse men. She’d clawed her way through alley fights, gutters and alleys that stank of piss and blood, nuns with cruel hands. She’d be damned if this was where it ended.

Keep going. Just keep going.

Let them chase her. Let them all chase her. As long as Margaret got away.

The world spun, the forest a blur of green and dark.

Please, let them chase me.

A hand caught her hair, yanked hard.

She screamed, but the sound was quickly muffled as a filthy palm clamped over her mouth. The stink of rot and sour ale flooded her senses.

She bucked and thrashed, scratching wildly, her fingers gouging at his skin, her knee trying to find purchase. He cursed and wrestled with her. She bit down on his hand. He yelped, loosening his grip, just enough.

Now!

She turned sharply and slammed her foot into his shin, then drove her elbow into his gut with every ounce of strength she had left.

He staggered, gasping.

Alexandra broke free. Her legs trembled, her lungs burned. She was dizzy with fear, with rage, with pain.

But she ran.

Behind her, the man roared. She heard him crashing after her again.

Nay. Nay, nay, nay… just let me make it. Let me reach the trees.

Something heavy struck her from behind. She collapsed onto the forest floor, air punched from her lungs.

The man grabbed her again, snarling this time. “Ye’ll fetch a fine price, girl.”

He began to drag her backward through the dirt, his grip rough, tearing at her gown.

Terror burst like thunder in her chest. That was it. Alexandra clawed at the earth, fingernails raking through mud and stones. She kicked, twisted, her limbs wild with desperation. Screamed until her throat tore raw, until the sound broke and failed her entirely.

And then…

Silence.

A shadow fell across her, long and unmoving. Something, or someone, loomed above.

The grip vanished.

Her body sagged in sudden release. She gasped and rolled, coughing, blinking up at the shape now standing between her and her attacker.

Still, she fought, refusing to be still, refusing to be helpless. She pushed up on shaky arms, crawled, staggered to her feet… and slammed into something solid.

A man, a mountain of one.

He didn’t stumble. Didn’t sway. Just stood there like the world had built itself around him and refused to go on without his permission.

His chest was broad beneath his worn, dark cloak, stone beneath fabric, and a sword hung long across his back, catching the dim light with a hungry gleam. But it wasn’t the weapon that struck her, it was the way he moved: not like a soldier or even a warrior… but something more dangerous.

He moved like death in human skin. Calm. Purposeful. Inevitable.

Alexandra’s breath caught, a fluttering thing in her chest.

Who in the devil’s name…?

He turned from her without a word and faced the man who had tried to drag her off.

“That one’s mine,” he said, voice low and measured.

The words barely echoed, but they reverberated in her bones. There was a strange beauty to his voice. A Highland burr, deep and grainy like it had been carved from the land itself. It sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with fear.

Her attacker snarled, drawing a blade from his belt. A short, jagged thing.

But the tall man didn’t flinch… he moved.

Saints preserve us.

One second he was still, and the next he was all brutal, fluid motion. The chain that had swung toward him was caught mid-air, twisted, yanked, and the man who held it stumbled forward, off-balance, right into a fist that cracked across his jaw with a sickening crunch.

The second blow came from nowhere, a boot to the gut that folded the thug in half. And then, steel.

The sword hissed free like it knew what it wanted.

A blur. A twist. A scream cut short by the wet sound of flesh meeting blade. Then… a thud. A body hitting earth, heavy and final. And stillness.

The other attackers had vanished, scattered like ash in the wind. Behind her, she thought she saw more men, armed, armored, sweeping the courtyard. But her eyes wouldn’t leave the one in front of her.

The man turned slowly and looked at her.

Her breath hitched again, but for another reason entirely.

Sweet Mary, he was…

Handsome wasn’t the word. There was nothing soft or pretty about him. But he was striking in a way that made her stomach twist, dark hair swept back from a face carved in harsh, angular lines, a scar along his jaw that only made him more dangerous. A man built for war. For blood and fire. And God help her, she felt her knees weaken, not from fear this time, but something far more foolish.

No, no, not now. Not this. She clenched her jaw, forced her thoughts to obey. But her heart, her traitorous heart, still beat too fast.

He stepped closer. The scent of leather, steel, and something wild and clean wrapped around her. He tilted his head.

“Lady Margaret MacLean?”

Alexandra blinked.

Of all the rotten luck in the world.

Chapter 2

Her breath stalled in her throat.

Margaret? He thinks I’m…

The thought tangled in her mind, spinning like leaves caught in a storm.

Her lips parted, instinct kicking in to correct him, but the words barely escaped before he was already moving. He stepped closer, purposeful but not rushed, and reached out to cup her elbow like he thought she might run.

And she might’ve. If her knees hadn’t chosen that moment to betray her. The strength left her all at once, legs crumpling beneath her. She pitched forward…

He caught her without strain. Like catching her weight was no more trouble than picking up a cloak.

“Easy, lass,” he murmured, his voice a gravel-soft blend of command and quiet reassurance.

That voice. It was wrong how steady it made her feel. Warm. Calloused fingers pressed firm against her arm, grounding her, anchoring her. She should’ve pulled away. She didn’t.

He dipped his head slightly, peering into her face. “Ye’re safe now. I promised yer faither I’d bring ye home.”

Home. The word coiled around her like a noose. She blinked up at him, the world lurching sideways. Her father? Home? Her mouth had gone dry. Her thoughts raced.

He means Margaret’s father. Margaret’s home.

His eyes were sharp, watching her. Not cruel, not leering… but intent. Searching. As if he expected her to shatter at any moment.

“Who…?” she whispered, her voice barely working. “Who are ye?”

The man hesitated for only a breath, then inclined his head in something like a formal bow, tight, reserved. “Laird Callum Mackenzie,” he said, the name rolling off his tongue like it carried weight, like it meant something.

It did. She could feel it in the way he said it, grounded, noble, and not to be questioned.

“Yer faither sent word weeks ago,” he continued, watching her closely. “Told me tae find ye. Bring ye back.”

Bring Margaret back. That’s why he’s here.

Dinnae deny it. Nae yet. You dinnae ken who he is. Or what he wants with her.

“Where… back where exactly?” she managed, forcing the words through her muddled thoughts. “Where are ye taking me?”

His brow dipped, just slightly. “The Highlands. North of Glen Torran. The keep’s nae far from the MacLean lands.”

She swallowed hard. That meant nothing to her, but maybe it would to Margaret.

His grip was still on her elbow, steadying her. His scent curled around her, and to her horror, it made her dizzy.

He’s strong. Dangerous. And he thinks I’m someone else. Someone important.

And right now, the only way to protect that someone was to stay in character so she didn’t correct him. Didn’t tell him her real name. Didn’t even blink.

Instead, she nodded faintly, lips parted, heart thundering.

“Right,” she murmured. “Of course.”

But her mind raced with a single question:

How long can I keep this up before he finds out who I really am?

Pain throbbed in Alexandra’s knees as she stood, wavering, skirts torn and caked with blood and earth. Her lungs burned. Her limbs shook. But all she could see was him, the stranger, broad-shouldered and iron-still, the moonlight catching on the edge of his sword like a whisper of danger.

He hadn’t moved since he’d helped her to her feet. He stood with the same quiet authority, watching her like a man who didn’t blink often. Like a man used to being obeyed.

She had to tread carefully.

She lifted her chin, forcing steel into her spine. “How did ye ken I am Margaret?” she asked, her voice rough but steady.

The man didn’t answer at once. He just looked at her.

His eyes were a stormy blue, unreadable but sharp, and they watched her like she was a puzzle he was already halfway to solving. The weight of it made her skin prickle. Alexandra’s mouth went dry.

Finally, he spoke, voice low. “I heard the others shoutin’ after ye. Margaret, they said. Loud enough tae stir the dead.”

He took a step closer, as if to examine her more fully. “And ye match the description. Chestnut hair. Blue eyes. The jaw of a girl who doesn’t yield easy.”

She kept her breath even. Swallowed the denial rising in her throat. Her name sat on the edge of her tongue, but she didn’t speak it.

Nae yet. Nae until I ken what he wants with Margaret. Margaret is out there somewhere. I have tae find her. I have tae keep her safe.

She forced a nod. She had to know more, to know if he was truly sent by the MacLeans or if this was all a lie.

“So we’re going north,” she said confidently, like she didn’t already feel the ground tilting beneath her. “Tae what end?”

His expression didn’t shift. “Tae keep ye safe.”

“And once I’m there?” she asked. “What then?”

It took him a moment to answer. “There’ll be a wedding.”

The words hit like cold water.

“A wedding,” she repeated, her voice nearly catching.

“Aye. An alliance. MacLean and Mackenzie.”

She paused, then frowned. “Why nae send MacLean men? Surely that would’ve been the proper way of it.”

Something flickered in his eyes, wry amusement, maybe.

“Aye,” he said. “Traditionally, ‘Tis the way of it. But this alliance isnae traditional.” He paused. “The MacLeans thought it wiser nae tae send their own, too many enemies scattered in the glens, too many eyes watchin’ the roads. Me family’s ties run deep enough, and we’ve fewer enemies in this stretch of the Highlands. They trusted me tae see ye delivered.”

Alexandra said nothing, the weight of his words pressing down on her like cold water.

An alliance through marriage. Margaret would be pleased.

“So I’m tae be married,” she said, quieter now.

He nodded. “That’s the arrangement.”

A wedding. A union between clans. A future that belonged to the girl she was pretending to be, not to her. Alexandra swallowed hard, trying to keep the panic from rising. What if Margaret was still running? Still hiding? What if she was lost or hurt, or worse?

I’ll find her. I have tae.

Her fingers curled tightly into her skirt. “And this alliance,” she said carefully, “I suppose I’ve nay say in it?”

His gaze didn’t shift. “There’s nay time. The Lowlands aren’t safe. The longer we linger, the more men will come.”

Not an answer. Not really.

She was trembling now, not from pain, not from exhaustion, but from everything else. Still, she kept her back straight. A stranger’s keep in the far Highlands. And she was walking into it under another woman’s name.

God help me. What is tae happen tae me?

She said nothing more, watching him as the wind hissed through the trees. Her thoughts churned.

Where was Margaret now? Had she truly escaped? Was she still running? Alexandra’s chest tightened.

Please, let her be safe. Let her get back tae the nunnery. I’ll find her. I’ll make this right. I’ll trade places again. I just need time.

But she couldn’t find her if she was dead. And Callum Mackenzie, for all his silence and stone-faced strength, hadn’t hurt her.

He turned slightly and nodded toward the tree line. “Can ye ride?”

Ride? I can barely walk.

She nodded anyway. Laird Mackenzie gave a sharp whistle, and from the shadows emerged a tall black stallion, led by one of his men. Three others followed, cloaked and armed.

He mounted first, then extended a hand. “Ye’ll fall if ye try yerself.”

Alexandra’s heart hammered. But she slipped her hand into his anyway. His grip was strong. He lifted her easily, swinging her up before him on the saddle. The warmth of his chest pressed against her back. His arms braced on either side. His breath close to her ear.

“Ride,” he commanded. The forest blurred around them as hooves struck earth.

Alexandra said nothing. She held her posture tight, eyes fixed ahead, the weight of a lie sitting like a stone in her chest.

She was not Margaret MacLean. But for now, she had to be.

And pray she found the real one before it was too late.

They rode in silence at first. Alexandra sat stiffly, fists clenched in her lap, spine straight as a rod. The night air bit at her cheeks, but the heat of Laird Mackenzie’s body behind her was worse, unsettling in its steadiness. His breath stirred the curls near her temple, and every so often, she felt his gaze shift, as though he were studying her profile in the dark.

She couldn’t keep quiet much longer. Not if there was a chance to fix this. Not if there was any hope of saving Margaret.

He hasn’t hurt you. He could’ve but he didn’t. He protected you. He might protect her too.

She licked her dry lips, bracing herself. “Laird Mackenzie, I must tell ye something,” she said, her voice low. “I’m nae who ye think I am.”

He didn’t react at first. Just kept his eyes forward, posture loose but alert.

“I’m nae Margaret MacLean,” she continued, the words tumbling out now, tight and panicked. “She was one of the other girls. We escaped together… I stayed behind tae draw them off. That’s why I was still there. That’s why they were shouting her name.”

Her heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the rhythm of the horse beneath them. “I never meant tae deceive ye. I only, I thought ye might mean her harm. I thought… I didnae ken who ye were.”

Silence stretched between them, long and suffocating. She risked turning her head slightly, to glance at him over her shoulder.

Laird Mackenzie’s expression was unreadable. Not angry, but watchful.

“I see,” he said at last.

She blinked. “Ye believe me, then?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, with a faint furrow of his brow, he said, “Ye waited some time tae tell me that.”

Her breath caught. “I didnae ken if I could trust ye!”

“Aye,” he said. “And now I dinnae ken if I can trust you.”

That stung.

“I’m telling the truth,” she said quietly. “I swear it.”

He didn’t soften. “Maybe ye are.”

Her mouth opened in protest, but no words came.

Finally, he added, “If ye insist on it, I suppose the sisters at the priory will ken who’s who.”

Alexandra swallowed hard, knowing full well that none of the sisters knew the truth. There was only one person who knew the truth, Margaret’s uncle, and he was not there.

“Aye,” she whispered.

***

By the time they reached the priory gates, the chaos had begun to settle. Laird Mackenzie’s men had stayed behind after the attack, scattering the remaining bandits and helping to re-secure the grounds. Smoke still hung faintly in the air, mingling with the scent of trampled herbs and cold stone.

Laird Mackenzie rode through the priory gates like he belonged to them. His men followed behind, silent shadows, nodding curtly at the women they passed. Alexandra sat stiffly in front of him, her spine straight, her hands cold in her lap.

He dismounted first and offered his hand again. She hesitated for a moment before taking it. Her feet barely touched the ground before the Prioress swept forward, her habit rustling like dried leaves. Her face was pale, wind-bitten, but her eyes were sharp and steady.

“Lady Margaret,” she breathed, reaching out like she meant to gather Alexandra into an embrace. “Thank the Lord ye’ve returned unharmed.”

Alexandra flinched. Her stomach twisted.

“Prioress…”

Laird Mackenzie stepped forward. “Prioress,” he said with a respectful nod, his voice firm but courteous. “Callum Mackenzie, son of Laird Malcolm Mackenzie. I was sent by Laird MacLean tae escort Lady Margaret north, as arranged.”

The Prioress blinked, then inclined her head with solemn recognition. “Laird Mackenzie. Aye… we received word some days ago that a representative may come, though we didnae expect ye so soon.”

“I arrived when I was needed,” he said simply. Then reached inside his cloak and withdrew a sealed letter. “Me orders. From her faither.”

The Prioress accepted the parchment, turning it in her hands, eyes catching on the MacLean seal. She nodded again, slower this time, before folding it and tucking it into her sleeve.

“Ye’ve done us a great service, Laird Mackenzie. Without yer men, this place may have burned. We’re grateful fer yer protection. And fer finding our girl.” Her gaze slid to Alexandra, warm but watchful.

Laird Mackenzie gave a modest dip of his chin. “I was glad tae offer help. Yer women held their ground better than most trained men I’ve kent.”

A faint flicker of pride softened the Prioress’s mouth. Alexandra stood frozen between them, words rising again in her throat. “Prioress, I’m afraid ye’ve made a mistake—”

But the woman was already turning away, her tone brisk and final. “Come. We must speak inside.”

Alexandra turned to Laird Mackenzie, her heart pounding but he, too, was already moving. Around them, nuns moved with hushed reverence, thanking Callum and his men with murmured blessings and shy nods. A few glanced at Alexandra, their expressions proud and relieved.

She tried one last time.

“I told ye. I’m not who…”

“I heard ye,” Laird Mackenzie said without looking at her. “I just dinnae believe ye.”

She turned sharply to face him. “Why?”

He studied her, unreadable. “Because ye protest too much. And yet, ye’ve nae run. And if ye’re nae Margaret, then where is she?”

In here somewhere, hopefully. I need tae find her.

She paused. Took a breath. She needed an opportunity to be alone. To search around the priory without the watchful eyes of Callum on her.

“If I must go with ye,” she said quietly, “may I at least pack me things?”

He regarded her for a long beat. Then nodded. “Be quick.”

She dipped her head, then slipped away down the cloister hall.

Not to pack, to search.

 

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