Chapter One
Coastal encampment, somewhere on the Scottish Coast, 1648
“Two hours we’ve been sittin’ in this wretched tent, and the man hasnae even had the grace tae show his face,”
Eilidh Ross watched her father plant both hands on the table like he was bracing for a fight.
“If yer laird thinks he can keep a Ross laird waitin’ like a tenant come tae beg, he’ll soon learn different.”
She pulled her cloak tighter. The encampment sat on the headland above the cliffs, gray sea bleeding into grayer sky until she couldn’t tell where the one ended and the other began.
Her eyes swept across the tent’s interior. Sea charts had been pinned to a wooden frame along the back of the tent and the table bore the scars of daggers driven point-first into the wood. But the candlesticks were silver and there was a carpet beneath her feet that had no place belonging in Scotland.
The Blackwood quartermaster—a grizzled warrior with an eyepatch and scarred hands leaned back in his chair.
“Laird Blackwood will come when he sees fit.” His tone was flat.
“Since Preston, there isnae a route south that daesnae run through an English garrison or a burned-out town.” Her father’s jaw tightened. “I’ve crossed half the Highlands bearin’ witness tae the cost of the wars, and I’m meant tae sit here watchin’ his men drink while he—what? Counts his plunder?”
One of the warriors by the entrance was picking at his thumbnail—the very picture of a man killing time. But each time her father mentioned a name or place, the man’s movements paused.
The quartermaster’s shoulders lifted and dropped. “Soon as ye’re ready, the road’s right where ye left it, Laird Ross.”
“I’ve laid fair terms,” her father said.
“I’m nae the one ye need tae convince.”
The tent flap flew open and salty wind surged through the gap, stirring her chestnut curls, carrying the scream of gulls. From below, the Atlantic roared as it crashed against rocks in a constant, relentless percussion that she could feel through the ground.
Eilidh’s nose wrinkled.
How dae they stand livin’ like this?
A man ducked through the opening. Tall, with the kind of bearing that suggested he could move faster than any man his size had any right to. He didn’t speak. Didn’t nod or so much as glance in her father’s direction. He simply crossed to the empty chair at the end of the table and sat down.
The quartermaster straightened beside him. “Me laird.”
So this is the pirate laird the Crown cannae pin down and the coast cannae shake loose.
She’d imagined someone older, harder, a man whose face would show the cost of every dark bargain he’d struck. Laird Alasdair Blackwood had cropped blond hair—not the wild mane she’d expected, with sharp brown eyes that missed nothing and gave back less. There was a thin scar dissecting his left eyebrow. No rings on his fingers despite the wealth his clan commanded.
His gaze drifted across the rest of the table before it snagged on Eilidh. One of his men had leaned in to murmur something, and Blackwood cut it short without turning his head, his gaze still fixed on her. “Leave it.”
The low rumble of his voice settled somewhere beneath her ribs, and she wanted to reach in and rip it out.
“Laird Ross.” His gaze left hers as he settled in the chair and turned to her father. “Yer terms are fair.” He leaned forward. “But fair isnae the same as useful.”
“Havin’ the grain tae feed yer men through winter is useful—”
“Aye. So is kennin’ who tae rob.”
Eilidh’s fingers tightened under the table. She leaned toward her father, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Look at them, Father. They’re fed. And half of them are wearin’ sassenach steel. He’s nae—”
“The lady seems tae have some thoughts on the matter.” His eyes were on her, his head tilting.
Every head in the room turned to her.
Eilidh blushed and swallowed once and then straightened her spine, the rough green wool of her dress pulling taut across her shoulders.
“Forgive me, Laird Blackwood, but that chair’s been empty fer hours yet it’s somehow said more than ye have since ye sat down in it,” she said, meeting his gaze.
For a moment, the entire tent went silent. The quartermaster’s hand drifted to his hilt, and another man standing by the entrance shifted his weight.
Eilidh didn’t flinch.
“Hmm.” The sound came out soft. “Ye should bring her tae all yer negotiations.” He leaned back, a slow and dangerous smile tugging at his lips. “I might actually show up on time fer the next one.”
“Just tell us what terms ye’ll accept, and we’ll leave ye tae it,” Eilidh said, her chin lifting. “I’m told the tide waits fer nay man—though apparently, everythin’ else around here daes.”
“Exclusivity.” The teasing warmth had vanished from his face like a tide pulling back to reveal rock. His jaw had gone still, his gaze flat and measuring. “Yer trade goods move through Blackwood hands or they dinnae move at all.”
Eilidh’s eyes drifted over the Blackwood men. They hadn’t so much as blinked, but the quartermaster’s fingers had shifted on his ale cup—just as they had every time her father named a clan or a route.
This isnae a negotiation. ‘Tis an interrogation. And faither’s been givin’ him everythin’.
She watched Blackwood’s fingers tapping on the table and noticed the veins that ran along the backs of his hands and the sun-darkened skin.
“Half the lairds who marched south wi’ the Engagers are rottin’, and the rest are scramblin’.” Blackwood rose slowly before he moved toward the tent flap and paused. “Ye’ve sat at their tables. I needed tae ken which of ‘em have already bent the knee tae the Kirk Party, and which ones are desperate enough tae deal wi’ a man like me.”
The wind outside pressed the canvas taut and tugged at the ropes.
Her father stood so fast his chair almost toppled over. “I’ll nae sit here and be insulted by the likes of—”
“Ye should leave, Laird Ross. Because this isnae a negotiation. It never was.” His eyes found her again. His knuckles rapped the wooden tentpole once. “Sleep well. If ye can.”
His men followed without a word and the Atlantic filled the silence with its permanent, battering roar. Eilidh pressed her palm flat against her thigh to stop her fingers trembling.
Her father turned to her. “Pack yer things. We’re leavin’ at first light.”
She pushed back from the table, her legs steady, her face composed, her shaking hands curled into the folds of her skirt.
“And Eilidh,” his hand caught her arm. “Stay in yer tent taenight. Dae ye understand me?”
The wind howled outside, and from somewhere beyond the canvas, she heard his voice—the low rumbling laugh of a man who’d gotten exactly what he came for.
“Aye, Faither.” Eilidh pressed her nails into her palms until the sting replaced whatever his voice had left humming under her skin.
The night dragged on. The wind had died to a low, persistent moan off the cliffs as Eilidh tossed and turned, her cot creaking beneath her.
“If I have tae eat another mouthful of salt-cured anythin’, I swear I’ll throw meself intae the bloody sea and take me chances.” A voice carried from the nearest fire, thick with complaint and whisky.
Eilidh pressed her eyes shut, willing the tent to swallow her whole.
The majority of Ross men had surrendered to sleep hours ago. Now, every laugh from the fires carried. Every curse. Every groan of a man shifting on hard ground.
Eilidh pressed her face into the pillow. “Och, fer the love of…”
She threw off the covers and pulled her boots on, wrapped her plaid over her shift with a belt, and slipped out before she could think better of it. Eilidh picked her way between tents, keeping to the shadows.
The wind bit her cheeks and tangled her hair and she didn’t care.
She passed the largest fire without looking, though she felt the heat of it and caught the low rumble of voices. One of them hit her pulse like a struck flint, and she bit the inside of her cheek.
“—aye, well, that’s the difference between a man wi’ a plan and a man wi’ a prayer, mind.”
A man’s laughter rang out, surprised and intoxicated. “Aye, Laird Blackwood, I’ve nay argument with ye there!”
Dinnae look.
Eilidh moved faster, darting through the tents. The lie was still rattling in her mind when she rounded a corner and heard three Blackwood warriors coming up the path toward her.
“Did ye see how wide those bonnie eyes went when she saw the laird? I thought the lass was goin’ tae swallow her own tongue!”
They laughed loudly as one man stumbled, his boots scraping loose stones.
She stepped back.
An arm hooked around her waist, hauling her sideways. For one savage heartbeat every single nerve in her body screamed in alarm. Then, her spine hit something solid. A hand pressed flat against her stomach, pinning her against a body that was all hard muscle and warmth, and a mouth dropped to her ear.
“Quiet.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She knew that voice—low, rough, close enough that his breath stirred the hair at her temple and sent heat racing down her neck.
The drunken men lurched past the gap between the tents, close enough that she caught the reek of whisky and unwashed wool. “Aye, but that tongue’s too sharp fer me.”
“I’d risk the guttin’.” The man stumbled, swore, and laughed as one of his companions shoved him upright.
Alasdair exhaled through his nose. His chest was a wall against her back, his arm an iron bar across her middle, and she could feel his heartbeat against her shoulder blade—steady while hers tried to crack her sternum open.
The men’s voices faded into nothing, but his hand stayed.
“Daes that bother ye?” His warm breath brushed her ear. “What they said.”
“’Tis only the drink talkin’. Means naethin’ if I dinnae let it.”
“Callum will be missin’ a few teeth come mornin’.”
“Fer bein’ in his cups?”
“Fer runnin’ his mouth about things that dinnae concern him.”
“Why would ye care whether it bothers me?” He didn’t answer. Eilidh drove her elbow back into his ribs. “Get yer hands off me, ye bloody pirate!”
He let go. She spun to face him, putting every inch of available distance between them, which amounted to barely a foot in the cramped gap.
He hadn’t flinched. He stood there filling the space between the tents, moonlight catching the scar above his brow. “Ye shouldnae be skulkin’ around—”
“I just wanted tae see the camp.”
“At this hour. Alone in a place crawlin’ wi’ men who’ve been drinkin’ since sundown?”
“I dinnae recall askin’ fer a keeper, Blackwood.”
“What if those three had found ye first? What was the plan—frighten them off wi’ a look?” He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Might’ve worked, mind. That scowl of yers could curdle whisky.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I ken how tae handle a few drunken fools.”
He leaned against the tent pole with his shoulder, arms crossing, bending forward just enough to tower over her slightly. The smell of salt and leather filled her nostrils, and beneath it, something darker that reminded her of the pitch-sealed oak of her father’s oldest whisky cask.
She shifted her weight, her hip dipping slightly.
“Dae ye come wi’ a warnin’ bell, Blackwood, or dae ye just appear and hope naebody suffocates around ye?”
His mouth twitched. “Ye’re still here.”
“Aye. Because ye’re blockin’ me way.”
“I’m nae turnin’ me back on ye wi’ that look on yer face.”
A sound escaped her—half breath, half snort. Eilidh crossed her arms, but her teeth had found her bottom lip.
“Ye held yer ground well today,” he said. “And ye saw me real play before yer faither did.” He tilted his head. “But ye didnae tell him.”
“I’m nae in the habit of correctin’ me faither in front of others,” she said, her chin lifting.
He grunted. “What ye said about the chair.” The scarred eyebrow lifted. “Ye sat on that one fer a good while before ye let it loose, aye?”
“If ye’re fishin’—ye’ll need better bait.” She turned to leave.
“How long has yer faither been strugglin’ wi’ his hearin’?”
“Excuse me?” She whirled around.
“When ye whispered tae him. Ye leaned right. Every time.” He hadn’t moved, but his gaze sharpened. “He’s losin’ hearin’ on the left and ye’ve been coverin’ fer it, havenae ye?”
She stared at him. “Ye should’ve been negotiatin’.” The words came out thinner than she’d meant them. “Keepin’ yer eyes—”
“‘Tis called strategic observation, lass.” He shifted his weight off the tent pole. “But since we’re keepin’ score of who’s watchin’ what—ye were starin’ at me hands.”
Heat flooded her jaw, the backs of her ears, her throat, suddenly feeling stripped bare. What else had he seen?
“I wasnae—” Her voice shook slightly.
“Aye. Ye were.”
“I was assessin’ a threat.” Eilidh countered, squaring her shoulders. “Ye dae have a reputation fer takin’ things that dinnae belong tae ye, bein’ a pirate and all.”
“Hmm.” He tipped forward slightly, the warmth of his breath ghosting over her nose. “Ye cannae seem tae help yerself. Assessin’ me. Up close.”
Canvas snapped above them. The wind pressed the walls inward, and she felt the heat rolling off his chest against her collarbones. “Ye dinnae ken me,” she said.
“Nay.” His gaze dropped to her mouth for one unguarded breath before dragging back up. “But I’d like tae.”
Before she could speak, he took one step in the narrow space and grabbed the back of her neck, hauling her toward him, his lips finding hers.
“Hmmh!”
The crack of her palm against his jaw split the quiet. Alasdair’s head turned with the blow.
“Ye arrogant oaf!” Her breath came ragged. “Is that what ye dae around these parts, then? Just grab whatever ye fancy and hope fer the best?”
He didn’t move. His chest heaved and the mark bloomed against his cheekbone, but his eyes held hers—half-wild and ravenous.
“Then go.”
She should have gone. But her boots held firm even as her palm stung.
“Yer tremblin’,” he said.
“’Tis cold.”
“Liar.”
His mouth found hers again—kissing her like he meant to ruin her for every man who ever followed, his thumb settling against the hollow of her throat where her pulse beat wild and traitorous.
A groan tore from his throat that vibrated against her lips and shot heat straight down her spine.
“Nay—” she gasped against his mouth, even as her fingers twisted tighter in his shirt, pulling. “We shouldnae be—”
“Why nae?” His voice was rough, wrecked, his mouth dragging from her lips to the hinge of her jaw. His teeth grazed the place where her pulse hammered and the scrape of it sent heat coiling tight behind her navel.
“Och…” She arched into him, furious at her own body for betraying her.
“Keep kissin’ me like that,” he breathed, his fingers tangling in her hair, “and ye can slap me all ye want.”
Her nails dug into his shoulders through the linen of his shirt. “Ye’re a fever, Blackwood. I’m just sweatin’ ye out.”
“Aye, I can tell.”
They stared at each other, both breathing hard. His hand slid to her hip and held her against him. He moved to kiss her again.
Eilidh put both palms flat against his broad chest—and pushed him away with all her might.
He stepped back, more from surprise than force, and the canvas caught him.
Before he could say anything, she turned and walked away. She could feel his gaze following her, but she kept her spine straight, refusing him the satisfaction of a backward glance.
Eilidh headed back toward the tent, her legs shaking. When she finally lay warm in her cot minutes later, it wasn’t the kiss that stayed with her.
It was three words. Whispered in the dark.
I’d like tae.
Chapter Two
Five years later, Ross Castle, The Hidden Vale, Scottish Highlands, 1653
“If Laird Murray reaches fer that whisky again, take the bottle before he decides tae make another speech.” Eilidh straightened a crooked linen without looking up.
“Aye, me lady.” The servant girl vanished into the crowd.
Eilidh planted her hands on her hips and surveyed the room.
Heather and pine boughs softened the stone arches. Tallow candles burned in every bracket making the Great Hall glow warm as amber, and beneath the fiddle music she could hear the shuffle of a gathering finding its feet—the scrape of wooden benches, the clink of pewter, the wet thud of a serving girl setting down another jug of ale that Clan Ross could barely afford to pour.
“The MacFarlan lot brought three extra men.” Her father’s voice landed at her shoulder, low enough that only she’d hear.
“I’ve asked Ranald and Gerard tae sort them out.”
Plaids from gathering clans filled the room, still damp from the ride in, mud still crusted on boots—weapons left at the door only because she’d insisted.
“Rourke’s been tourin’ the grounds I hear.”
She didn’t look up from the taper she was adjusting. “Aye. I had Morag follow him.”
“That’s nae a man takin’ stock fer curiosity, Eilidh.”
“I ken. He’s measurin’ what he plans tae own.”
He grunted—the sound he made when she’d said something he’d been avoiding thinking. “When did ye get sharper than me?”
“Years ago, old man. Ye just dinnae like admittin’ it.”
He snorted into his ale, but the furrow between his brows didn’t ease. He scanned the room. “The hall’s warmer than I expected taenight. Fewer clenched jaws.”
“Give it time. Fergus’ll be singin’ by the second course.”
A young servant boy approached. “Milady, the ale—”
“Dinnae fash yerself, lad. Bring up two more casks from the cellar and water fer the third. They’ll nae even notice the difference.”
Dougal’s eye caught hers across the room and lifted two fingers toward the MacFarlan table, where an argument over venison was picking up speed. The warrior nodded once, already moving.
She was reaching for a wax taper when her hand stopped mid-air—the skin along her forearms prickling the way it used to before a storm rolled down from the peaks.
Her head snapped up to find Alasdair Blackwood leaning against the far wall, his profile half-eaten by shadow, arms crossed, speaking to no one. The candlelight caught the scar bisecting his left eyebrow. It hadn’t faded. If anything, it suited him better now.
His brown eyes found hers and the night they’d met flooded her memory—his shirt bunched in her fists, the vibration of his groan against her mouth, the sound wrecked.
And then there’s the part where ye tucked tail and ran, remember?
Her fingers tightened on the taper until the wax bit into her skin. She set it into the sconce and turned her back on him.
“Lady Ross.” The voice landed somewhere behind her, entirely too close.
Eilidh turned. “Laird Rourke.”
“Ye’ve outdone yerself taenight.” His gaze swept the room—appraising, cataloguing. “Quite the spread, Lady Ross. Though I wonder whether the hospitality or the reserves will run out first.”
“Clan Ross’s reserves will last far longer, I assure ye.”
“Glad to hear it. Though, I wonder how long they’ll stretch, what with the Crown taking its share and the trade routes narrowing by the week.” His dark eyes held hers—warm, unwavering, still as a loch. “Fergive me. I dinnae mean tae pry. It’s only that ye shouldnae have tae bear this burden, Lady Ross. Nae alone.”
“I appreciate yer concern. Clan Ross carries its weight well enough.”
His voice dropped. “I’ve seen clans crumble under less strain. It would be a tragedy to witness it happen here.” He paused, his head dipping slightly. “Especially when it’s preventable.”
“That’s a fine way tae dress a threat, Laird Rourke. Though the stitchin’ shows.”
His mouth curved. He raised his voice, and the hair on the back of her neck lifted with it.
“Laird Ross.” He turned to her father, who stood four paces away with his ale and a scowl deep enough to scar. “I’ve long admired the strength of yer clan, and the grace with which yer daughter conducts its affairs. In these uncertain times we face, I believe there is wisdom in unity.” He turned back to Eilidh, his smile sincere, but his eyes cold. “Lady Ross—I offer me hand, and the full resources of Invercarron, in marriage. A union tae secure both our futures.”
The fiddle stopped. Conversations fell away like stones dropped into deep water—one table, then the next, rippling outward until the hall held nothing but candlelight and silence.
Cunnin’ of ye tae ensure witnesses.
Across the room, Alasdair hadn’t moved. But the set of his shoulders had shifted—sharpened into something watchful that hadn’t been there a moment before.
“Sit down, Rourke.” Her father’s voice cut through the silence. “Ye’ve said yer piece. And if ye think ambushin’ me daughter in front of a hundred witnesses passes fer courtship, ye’ve misread the room and the men standin’ in it.”
“Of course. These things take time. I wouldn’t dream of rushing so weighty a decision.” His dark eyes found Eilidh. “I only hope time remains a luxury yer clan can still afford.”
Eilidh walked from the hall before the burning in her chest reached her face.
Her mother’s hand caught hers at the archway—just a quiet press, the same way she’d done a hundred times when Eilidh was small and scared of the thunder rolling through the Highland hills.
“Are ye all right, mo chridhe?”
Tears stung her eyes before she could stop them. She pressed them shut, and felt her mother pull her closer. Eilidh let her head rest against her mother’s shoulder.
“Look at me,” Lady Ross’s hand came up. “Yer faither willnae let him have ye.” Her thumb pressed once against Eilidh’s cheek. “I’ll see tae it.”
Eilidh nodded before stepping out into the corridor, wishing her mother’s words were enough to keep the dread from rising in her throat.
***
Alasdair stepped into the corridor and found her standing against the far wall, spine straight. The candlelight from a single wall sconce caught the dark chestnut of her hair and the rigid set of her shoulders.
“Ye left in a hurry. I expected ye tae gut him at the table.”
Her chin came up and she turned on him with those green eyes sharp enough to flay skin “Is there a reason ye’re followin’ me, Blackwood, or is lurkin’ in corridors just somethin’ ye dae between disappearin’ acts?”
“I watched a man try tae corner ye in front of several witnesses.” He settled one shoulder against the archway, arms crossing. “And ye let him walk away wi’ all his teeth. Ye’ve gotten patient.”
“Ye think I’d let Ewan Rourke corner me?”
“Nay.” He tilted his head. “But ye’re out here swallowin’ yer fury in the dark rather than letting’ him see ye choke on it. That’s nae composure, lass. That’s a woman who kens if she opens her mouth right now, she’ll burn the room down.”
“I needed a moment without a man decidin’ what I’m worth tae him. And ye’re nae improvin’ the odds.”
“Rourke’ll take that as an insult—”
She whirled around. “And what will ye take it as?”
He stopped three paces from her. “From where I was standin’, that looked less like a proposal and more like a siege.”
Her arms locked across her chest. “Ye dinnae get tae walk intae me hall and start pointin’ out cracks in me walls, Blackwood. I built them. I ken where they bend.”
She looked away.
“Ye’re goin’ tae marry him, then.”
Her green eyes hardened. “Me decisions dinnae require yer input. Ye’ve plenty of yer own tae mismanage.”
There she is.
“Aye. But none of them brought me here.”
“Ye’ve nay claim here.” She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t flinched.
“I’ve seen the way ye look at him, lass.” He held her gaze. “That wasnae how ye looked at me—”
“Ye dinnae ken what ye saw. ‘Twas dark.”
“I ken what I felt.” His brown gaze held hers. “Ye kissed me like ye were furious about wantin’ tae.
“Whatever ye think ye remember—”
“I remember everythin’.” He shifted closer, his voice dropping. “Ye looked at me like ye wanted tae devour me and hated yerself fer it.” His eyes tracked her face, down to her neck. “And I’ve been—” Her eyes widened and he caught himself.
“Ye’ve been what?”
He’d once bribed a Ross merchant to hear whether she was well. The information had cost him a cask of French brandy he could ill afford, and he’d paid it without blinking.
Achin’ fer ye. Every bloody day since.
His hand had moved without his permission, his fingers reaching for her wrist before he pulled back.
“Ferget it.”
She opened her mouth but footsteps echoed down the corridor—sharp and urgent. They pulled apart, the distance between them filling with cold night air.
Dougal rounded the corner, breathing hard. “Milady… yer faither’s askin’ fer ye.”
Eilidh straightened her spine, nodded, and followed him down the corridor without looking back.
Alasdair waited until her footsteps faded. Then he moved. He caught his captain, Brian, in the courtyard. “Wi’ me. Now.”
“Where?”
Ross didnae summon his daughter fer a goodnight peck on the cheek.
“After her.”
***
Dougal’s voice dropped the moment they turned the corner. “There’s an escort waitin’ fer ye, milady. Yer faither wants ye gone from the castle—”
“What?” Her voice was sharp. “Why?”
“Laird Rourke wasnae pleased with the rebuke of his offer.”
Eilidh’s skin prickled. “Where am I goin’?”
“He didnae say, milady.”
Eilidh nodded. Within minutes, she was mounted and riding into the darkness, four Ross guards flanking her, the castle shrinking behind them.
They had just crested the ridge when an arrow struck the lead guard between his shoulder blades. The man pitched forward with a strangled cry that was swallowed by the sudden thunder of hooves.
Eilidh’s head snapped up to find riders bursting from the tree line on both flanks. Steel flashed in the pale moonlight, and she saw a flash of tartan.
Rourke led the charge—broadsword drawn, dark hair slicked back against his skull, his face bearing the look of a man collecting something he already counted as his.
Her mare whinnied and reared. Eilidh clung to the saddle, her thighs locking hard as hooves churned frozen earth underfoot. An attacker wheeled toward her, but he was met with a war hammer and the sickening crack of bone made her stomach lurch into her throat.
“Milady!” the Ross guard’s voice came, ragged with desperation. “RIDE!”
Eilidh kicked her mare forward but a Rourke rider cut across the path, and her horse shied hard enough to throw her weight sideways. She caught the mane with one fist—the world tilting, the ground rushing up—and then righting itself as the mare found her footing.
He’s goin’ tae take me. Call it rescue and there willnae be a single soul alive tae say otherwise.
Eilidh’s fingers found the small dagger strapped to her belt—it was barely enough to gut a fish, let alone fight off armed men—but she’d sooner drive it into her own chest than let Ewan Rourke drag her to Invercarron.
Her head snapped to the south, from where she could hear thundering hoofbeats approaching. She barely had time to send up a wordless prayer when she saw Alasdair coming off the slope with his targe raised and a blackened dirk drawn.
The first rider committed to a broadsword swing—wide arc, his full weight behind it. Alasdair moved before the blade was halfway through. He caught it on the boss of the targe, stopping the blow before he stepped through the gap inside the man’s reach—and plunged the dirk into his ribs.
He had barely withdrawn his blade when another came roaring with an axe held high from his left. Alasdair let the swing spend itself on empty air, stepped inside the man’s guard, and drove the targe into his chest.
The warrior staggered. The dirk opened his throat before he found his balance.
Despite the carnage, Eilidh couldn’t look away. He moved through the violence with a patience that terrified her. Steel rang off steel somewhere to the left, and beneath it came the sounds of horses wailing, hooves churning frozen earth, and the choked, short cry of another man catching a blade.
“Two more off the ridge!” Brian’s voice cut through the din.
Alasdair’s head snapped up toward the sound, then back. “Rourke?”
Brian jerked his chin toward the northern tree line. “Bolted when ye took down the second man. Took three riders with him.”
Alasdair stared into the dark between the birches.
The night pressed in—the clearing settling into the terrible quiet that followed violence. She could hear blades being sheathed, the wind moaned through the trees while somewhere in the dark a wounded horse made gut-wrenching sounds that would haunt her.
“Then this isnae over.”
His men took care of the last attackers and she watched him wipe his blade on a dead man’s plaid before his eyes found hers and he moved toward her. His fingers found her chin, tilting her face into the moonlight before his thumb brushed a smear of someone else’s blood from her cheekbone.
“Ye’re comin’ wi’ me.” His voice cut through the reek of blood and churned earth.
“Nay. I need tae go home—”
“Rourke led that charge himself. That wasnae an ambush—that was a claim. And he’ll make another.”
“And where exactly daes that leave me?”
He reached up and took her mare’s reins, his knuckles black with drying blood against the pale leather. “Tae start off, I suggest ye stop arguin’ wi’ the only man standin’ between ye and a forced marriage.”
“Tae Stormreach?” She went very still. “Ye have a ridiculous sense of humor, Blackwood.”
“Dae I look like I’m jestin’?” He gestured behind him at the clearing. “Yer father will be glad ye’re alive. Anythin’ beyond that, I’ll answer fer.”
Her chin lifted. “And what happens when we get there?”
“Ye’ll be safe.” His brown gaze held hers. “Argue wi’ me on the way there all ye like—but ye’re comin’ wi’ me. Now.”
“Ye ken what will happen when Rourke finds out ye’ve taken me. Ye’ll be puttin’ yer clan in danger.”
“Aye. But I also ken what happens tae ye if he catches ye.” He said, his eyes gone cold, his voice almost a growl. “I’d rather risk war.”
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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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