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Chapter 1

Castle MacAlpin, 1659

“Faither, may I be excused?” Isolde set down her spoon. “I fear I’m nae feeling quite meself tonight.”

Isolde glanced at her sisters seated across the long oak table. A moment before, the dining hall echoed with the scrape of spoons against bowls. Now Isolde caught her sister’s eye and tilted her head slightly toward the door. Rhona nodded, understanding immediately.

Laird Alistair MacAlpin looked up from his simple meal, concern etching his weathered face. “Aye, lass. Get some rest.”

The few servants that remained at MacAlpin Castle cleared dishes in silence, their footsteps echoing in the half-empty hall. As she slipped out of her chair, a wave of sadness to flood through Isolde. She remembered when those tables had groaned with food and the hall had bustled with clansmen.

How quickly fortunes could change in the Highlands—one poor harvest, one failed alliance, one enemy too many. Their once-proud clan now clung to their lands by mere threads of ancient loyalty, their wealth as scattered as the autumn leaves. What her father wouldn’t trade for just one strong son to inherit rather than five daughters, no matter how clever they might be. “I shall look after her,” Rhona announced, already rising. “She was complaining of a headache earlier.”

Isolde’s other sister Aileen, the youngest at sixteen, fidgeted in her seat. “May I also—”

“Go on then,” their father waved a hand, “all of ye. These old bones need peace and quiet.”

The three sisters hurried from the hall, maintaining decorum until they rounded the corner. Then they broke into a run, skirts gathered in their hands, stifling giggles as they raced up the winding staircase to the east tower.

“Quickly!” Isolde burst through the chamber door. Her mother’s midnight blue velvet with the silver thread gown was already laid across her bed.

Rhona locked the door behind them. “Ye’re mad, ye ken that? Completely daft tae dae this.”

“Stop scolding like some old woman and help me,” Isolde was already tugging at her dinner dress. “I cannae miss this chance tae see him.”

Aileen bounced on her toes while helping her sister with the undershirt. “What if Da discovers ye’re gone?”

“He willnae if ye two dinnae mess this up. And make sure Lorna and Isla are sworn to silence.” Isolde stepped into the blue gown, its style a decade old but the fabric still rich and lustrous. “Rhona, the laces!”

Rhona pulled the dress tight, snatching Isolde’s waist. “Ye’ve been obsessed with Laird MacCraith since ye first laid eyes on him, when he visited Da.”

“Wouldnae ye be?” Isolde’s cheeks flushed. “The way he carries himself, he’s like a warrior king from the old stories.”

“He’s older than ye,” Aileen whispered, eyes wide.

“And they say his clan’s council would never let him marry outside powerful alliances,” Rhona added.

“I’m nae proposing marriage,” Isolde snapped. Her face softened at her sister’s hurt expression, and she squeezed her arm affectionately. “I just want tae see him again. Tae be in the same room, even if just once more.”

Rhona worked on Isolde’s hair with precision, twisting the dark ginger locks into an elegant arrangement. “A laird’s unwed daughter, unescorted, at another laird’s masquerade… ye’ll be ruined if recognized.”

Isolde raised one finger, then reached for a silver mask inlaid with tiny sapphires—another relic from their mother’s chest. “Nay one will ken me with this.”

She fastened it and turned to look at her reflection. The mask transformed her, lending mystery to her blue eyes and high cheekbones.

“Oh my. Ye look like royalty,” Aileen breathed.

“Is the secret passage still clear?” Isolde gathered a dark cloak.

“Aye,” Rhona nodded. “I checked yesterday. The old hunting path beyond is overgrown but passable.”

Isolde embraced her sisters fiercely. “If anyone asks—”

“Ye’re ill with a fever and sleeping,” Rhona finished. “We ken.”

“I’ll be back before dawn,” Isolde promised, slipping a small dagger into her boot.

Aileen pressed something into her hand. She looked down and saw it was a small silver charm. “Fer luck. ‘Twas Maither’s.”

Isolde’s throat tightened. She kissed her youngest sister. “I’ll be careful, mo chridhe.”

Rhona opened the window to the narrow ledge beyond. “If ye’re caught by our clan enemies on the road—”

“I’ll gut them meself,” Isolde grinned fiercely, but when she saw her sisters’ worried expressions, she added, “I promise tae be careful and come home soon.”

Not wasting another second, she slipped through the window and disappeared into the shadows, her heart pounding with the thrill of forbidden adventure and the thought of seeing Laird Ciaran MacCraith.

***

Castle Murray, The Masquerade Ball

The moment Isolde entered the crowded room, her eyes were drawn to him as if by magic. Her breath caught in her throat.

Laird Ciaran MacCraith. The mere sight of him sent a rush of heat through her body, settling low in her belly.

Sweet heavens, even from across the room his presence steals my breath.

Isolde pressed herself into the shadows, her back against a stone column, her heart hammering against her ribs like a war drum.

Torches blazed from every wall, bathing the great hall in golden light. Music swirled around masked dancers who spun like autumn leaves in a whirlwind, but Isolde didn’t notice. Her eyes were fixed on him.

Laird Ciaran MacCraith stood head and shoulders above most of the men in the room. His dark hair was pulled back from a face half-covered by a black mask. He moved with the confidence of a man who commanded respect without asking.

A circle of admirers surrounded him—daughters from clans powerful enough for their ambitious lairds to hover like hawks, their eyes gleaming with the hope their daughter would be the one to capture the dashing Ciaran McCraith’s attention.

Isolde’s fingers tightened on her goblet, taken from a passing servant’s tray as her attention remained fixed on Laird Ciaran. Two years. Two long years since that day he’d arrived at their castle.

She’d been on the gallery above the great hall when he strode in with his men, his deep voice washing over her like the finest Highland whisky—rough with the brogue of his people yet smooth with the refinement of a learned man. She’d pressed herself behind a pillar, stretching her neck to observe him as he awaited her father.

What would ye think if ye kent I’ve been dreaming of ye fer two long years?

And tonight, attending this masquerade, would add to her collection of secret memories. To drink him in with her eyes, to hear his laugh echo across the chamber would be enough.

Knowing the impossibility of their clans’ alliance, she sought no introduction, expected no acknowledgment. She’d remain a shadow at the edge of his world, content merely to exist in the same space, to breathe the same air, if only for those stolen hours.

She watched him lead a blonde woman to the dance floor. His movements were fluid, controlled. Even in dance, he moved like a warrior.

Just one glimpse of ye was all I wanted.

For over an hour, Isolde watched hawk-eyed from the shadows. She studied his hands as they clasped those of noblewomen, imagining how they might feel against her own skin—rough from the dueling, yet gentle in their guidance across the dance floor.

When he laughed at something a lass said, Isolde’s eyes traced the strong column of his throat to the slight dimple that appeared on his left cheek.

She sipped sweet wine, letting it linger on her tongue, wondering if his kiss would be as intoxicating.

When his path brought him near where she stood, she pressed deeper into the shadows, turning away but watching him through lowered lashes. Her breath caught as he passed close enough that she could detect a whiff of leather and his cologne.

The evening wore on. Candles burned lower in their sconces. The musicians played faster, more passionate reels that sent couples spinning in dizzying circles. Isolde watched, imagining Ciaran McCraith’s arm around her waist, guiding her through those same steps, his breath warm against her hair.

Dinnae be a fool, Isolde. Men like him dinnae notice women from fallen clans. Ye’ve had enough daydreaming.

The midnight bell would soon toll, and she would have to return before dawn exposed her deception. She set down her goblet, preparing to leave.

That was when the music changed.

A slow, haunting melody rose from the musicians’ corner. Dancers separated, seeking new partners. In that moment of shifting alliances, Laird Ciaran MacCraith turned.

Across the crowded hall, through the sea of masks and finery, his gaze locked directly with hers.

Isolde froze. The room stilled around them, the music fading to a distant hum until the only thing she could hear was her own thundering heart. She should look away—flee—but she was trapped in the intensity of his stare.

And then—

Is he walking toward me?

Yes. Yes, he was.

Laird Ciaran MacCraith was moving toward her, cutting through the crowd with purpose, his eyes never leaving hers.

Panic surged through Isolde’s veins. She wasn’t prepared for this—not for him to notice her, certainly not for him to approach.

Run. I must run.

She turned sharply, skirts swirling around her ankles, but her foot caught on the edge of a tapestry. The world tilted. She threw out her hands as she stumbled forward—

Strong hands captured her waist, steadying her with impossible gentleness despite their firm grip. Heat blazed through the fabric of her gown where his fingers pressed. The scent of leather and rare Florentine ambergris enveloped her, dizzyingly close.

Isolde’s body arched backward into the curve of his hold, her spine making a perfect bow. She lifted her gaze and was immediately sucked into eyes so dark, they seemed to drink the torchlight around them rather than reflect it—eyes that studied her face with surprising intensity.

“Careful, lass,” he murmured, his voice lower and smoother than in her memories. It wrapped around her like velvet. “These floors have been kent to claim even the most delicate of dancers.”

His face hovered mere inches from hers. She could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight shadow of evening stubble beneath his mask, the way his lips curved—not quite a smile but just as ruthless in its charm.

Heat crept up her neck. This close, she could feel the power in his frame, the controlled strength as he effortlessly held her suspended between falling and standing.

“I—I wasnae… I didnae—” Words stumbled over her tongue, her usually quick wit deserting her entirely.

His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes, the gesture so quick she might have imagined it, yet it left her lips tingling for his touch.

“Dance with me.” Not a question. He expected Isolde to obey without protest.

Her fingers flexed against his forearms, not certain when she’d placed her hands there. She should retreat, make her excuses—

“Unless ye fear being seen with me?” he challenged, something flashing in his eyes. “Perhaps ye prefer tae remain in the shadows, watching rather than experiencing?”

Pride surged through her confusion. She straightened her spine, chin lifting. “I fear naething, me laird.” She infused her voice with all the noble bearing her father had instilled in her. “Certainly nae a dance.”

His smile, a true smile that transformed his severe features, nearly buckled her knees. His eyes crinkled at the edges, revealing a warmth she hadn’t expected from a man rumored to be tough, strong.

Isolde felt like the sun had just broke through the night, unexpected, and all the more stunning for its rarity.

He took her gloved hand in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a caress that seemed to scorch through the fabric.

“Then prove it to me,” he said, leading her toward the center of the hall, where the musicians had begun a new melody. “Let us see if ye can keep pace with more than just yer sharp tongue.”

The musicians struck up a new melody as he led her to the center of the hall. Other dancers parted, their eyes following them with curious glances. Lasses who’d spent the evening seeking the laird’s favor now watched with silent dismay as he guided a mysterious masked woman across the floor, having ignored several eligible daughters, each of which had hoped to have the next dance.

“Strange,” His hand settled at the small of her back. Isolde felt it like a flame burning through her gown, “I cannae recall seeing ye at any gathering before tonight. I’m certain I would remember.”

She arched an eyebrow beneath her mask. “The whispers say ye have enough women in yer company. How dae ye keep a tally of them all?”

God, why did I just say that?

His laugh was low and rich, sending a shiver down her spine as he guided her through the first turn. “It’s easy with the captivating ones.” His fingers tightened slightly at her waist, drawing her closer than the dance required. “Especially when they cannae seem tae take their eyes off me.”

The music quickened, and so did Isolde’s heart as he spun her outward, only to pull her back against his chest with controlled strength. He continued speaking without giving her enough time to answer.

“Ye’ve been watching me all evening, lass.” His voice dropped lower still. “From behind yer pillar. Did ye think I wouldnae notice?”

Isolde’s breath caught. “I-I wasnae… I wasnae watching ye,” she managed, the slight tremor in her voice betraying her.

One corner of his mouth hitched higher. “Ye lie very prettily.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering there with unmistakable intent. “Such bonnie lips shouldnae be wasted on falsehoods when they could be put tae far more… pleasurable uses.” He pulled her closer, his meaning impossible to misinterpret as his own lips hovered mere inches from hers.

Heat flared in Isolde’s cheeks. She pulled back sharply, missing a step in the dance. Her pulse quickened with indignation at his boldness. No man had ever dared speak to her so brazenly before

“Ye dare tae presume…” she started, her voice trembling slightly.

“I presume naething, lass,” he countered, his brogue deepening. “I merely observe what’s before me.”

“I am a lady, Laird MacCraith, nae one of your tavern wenches tae be toyed with.” Her chin lifted, eyes flashing fire behind her mask. “I thought ye were a man of honor, nae one who would speak tae a woman of noble birth as if she were… were…”

“Fascinating?” he offered, seemingly more intrigued than chastened by her outburst.

“Indecent,” she finished, stepping away from him as the dance came to an end. The other dancers were already pairing off for the next set, but Isolde had endured enough. Her heart couldn’t bear another moment pressed against him, desire warring with dignity.

“Ye think me a conquest then?” she challenged, backing away.

The MacAlpin name might have lost its wealth and its standing, but she would not let it lose its honor. Even as her traitorous body yearned for his touch, her father’s daughter would not be made sport of by a man who could take whatever—and whomever—he wanted. “I think ye a mystery I intend tae solve,” he replied, his eyes never leaving hers. “Ken, lass, this isnae finished between us.”

She dropped into a curtsy, deliberately formal and cold. “Good evening, m’laird. Thank ye fer the dance.”

Without waiting for his response, she turned and moved swiftly through the crowd, ignoring his call of “Wait!” that followed her.

Her cheeks burned with equal parts anger and embarrassment. She had fantasized about this moment for two years, and now that insufferable man had spoiled it entirely with his arrogance.

The great Laird MacCraith—so proud and presumptuous, treating her as though she were merely another conquest to be claimed like land in battle. For all his fine reputation, he was no better than the rest of them—those Highland lairds who believed their power gave them right to whatever they desired.

Mother would have called him ‘a wolf in fine wool,’ and now Isolde could see why. Yet, even as disappointment burned in her breast, something else smoldered alongside it—something dangerous that sought expression.

The cool night air hit her face as she pushed through a side door into a small courtyard. Stars dotted the black sky above. She gulped down breaths, willing her racing heart to calm.

She heard the door behind her open, and pressed herself into the shadows of a stone archway, holding her breath. Ciaran’s tall figure appeared, his silhouette unmistakable as he looked left and right across the courtyard.

“Me laird!” A voice called from inside. “The lairds are gathering in the library to discuss the alliance.”

Ciaran hesitated, looking once more into the darkness before turning back. “Aye, I’m coming.”

When the door closed behind him, Isolde sagged against the cold stone. What a fool she’d been. This entire adventure had been madness from the start. She pushed away from the wall, gathering her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

It was time to go home. She’d had her glimpse of Laird Ciaran MacCraith—far more than a glimpse. Perhaps it was for the best he’d revealed his true nature. Now she could finally purge him from her thoughts, her dreams, her very being. The man she’d built in her imagination had crumbled to dust, replaced by this arrogant beast with hungry eyes. Perhaps it was the cure she’d needed all along.

A few minutes later, Isolde was urging her horse faster along the narrow path. The forest was thick there, branches reaching like spectral fingers across the trail. She’d tarried too long at Castle Murray—dawn would break in mere hours, and she had to be back in her bed before the household stirred.

“Come on, Brígh,” she whispered to her mare, leaning forward in the saddle. The path dipped sharply, forcing her to slow as they descended toward the valley that would lead her to the MacAlpin lands.

The snap of a branch froze her blood.

Isolde pulled Brígh to a halt, listening. The night was too quiet—no owls, no rustling creatures. She reached slowly for the dagger in her boot, fingers just brushing the hilt when thundering hoofbeats erupted behind her.

“Yah!” She dug her heels into Brígh’s sides. The mare surged forward, but the path was too narrow for speed. Three riders crashed through the underbrush, cutting across the forest to intercept her.

The first rider appeared ahead, blocking the path. Isolde yanked the reins, veering Brígh sharply left into the trees. Branches clawed at her face and gown as they plunged through the darkness.

“There she goes!” a gruff voice shouted. “Dinnae let her reach MacAlpin land!”

They ken who I am.

Panic surged through her veins. Brígh stumbled on the uneven ground, nearly sending Isolde flying. Before she could regain control, a rope whistled through the air, catching her around the waist and yanking her from the saddle.

She hit the ground hard, air rushing from her lungs. Still, she scrambled to her feet, dagger now in hand as three men dismounted and advanced.

“Well, well,” the largest one chuckled, his face scarred and brutal in the moonlight. “Lady Isolde MacAlpin, out fer a midnight ride. Laird Wallace will be pleased.”

Wallace! I should have kenned!

“Tell yer master I’m nae interested in his attentions,” Isolde spat, circling slowly, dagger gleaming. “I’d sooner wed a toad.”

The men laughed, spreading out to surround her. “It’s nae a proposal we’re bringing ye, m’lady,” the scarred one said. “It’s an order. Ye’ll make a dutiful bride at our laird’s side, whether ye wish it or nae. The MacAlpin lands will be his one way or another.”

“I’ll die first,” Isolde hissed, lunging suddenly at the nearest man.

Her dagger slashed across his arm, drawing a howl of pain. She spun, kicking hard at the second man’s knee, feeling it buckle beneath her boot. But the scarred leader caught her from behind, massive arms wrapping around her.

Isolde drove her head backward, feeling the satisfying crunch as her skull connected with his nose. His grip loosened enough for her to twist, bringing her knee up sharply between his legs.

“Ye witch!” he gasped, doubling over.

She clawed at his face, nails raking bloody furrows down his cheek before the other men recovered. One grabbed her hair, yanking her head back while the other twisted the dagger from her grip.

“Naething was said about bringing ye unharmed,” the scarred leader growled, blood streaming from his nose into his beard as he straightened. “Just alive.”

“Ye can tell yer—” Isolde’s defiant words cut off as he backhanded her across the face, splitting her lip. She tasted blood but refused to cry out.

“Enough talk,” he snarled, grabbing her chin. “Bind her hands. We ride fer—”

The snap of a twig and the soft thud of boots hitting earth silenced him. It was their only warning before a shadow detached itself from the darkness behind them.

Chapter 2

TThe thud of steel met flesh before the men could turn. The scarred man howled in pain as a blade sliced across his back. He stumbled forward, releasing Isolde as he turned to face this new threat.

Isolde fell back, eyes widening as she recognized her rescuer. Laird Ciaran MacCraith, his face fierce in the moonlight, was a far cry from the charming dancer she had run out on at the ball.

“Kill him!” the scarred leader roared, drawing his own sword. The three men formed a semicircle, stalking toward Ciaran with weapons raised.

The first attacker lunged with a wild swing. Ciaran sidestepped with practiced ease, his blade meeting the man’s with a ringing clash before sliding down to slice across his opponent’s forearm. The man cried out but pressed forward, joined by his companions in a coordinated attack.

Ciaran moved like water between them, his footwork precise where theirs was clumsy. His sword became an extension of his arm, parrying, striking, drawing blood with each calculated movement. Where they hacked and slashed, he executed controlled strikes that spoke of years of disciplined training.

One man fell to his knees, clutching a deep gash in his thigh. Another stumbled back, blood pouring from a cut above his eye. The scarred leader, seeing his advantage disappear, glanced between his injured companions and the barely winded laird.

“Run!” he finally shouted, scrambling backward toward his horse. The others followed, cursing as they fled.

The attackers crashed through the forest, disappearing into the darkness with Ciaran’s curses following them into the night. Only when their hoofbeats faded did he turn back to Isolde, sheathing his blade.

***

“Are ye hurt, lass?” Ciaran asked. Blood pounded in his ears, the battle rage still coursing through his veins.

Something about her had drawn him away from duty—perhaps the way she’d stood her ground against his teasing, or how she’d matched him word for word without cowering as most lasses did. She was fire where others were merely smoke, and he’d been unable to resist the pull of her flame.

His impulsive decision to follow her had saved her life, though he’d had no choice in letting the bastards who attacked her go. Making sure she was alright was more important, and if she told him who they were, getting them would prove easy enough.

Now, watching her in the moonlight, he wondered what other surprises this mysterious woman might hold.

She touched her lip where blood had already begun to dry. “Nothing lasting,” she said, pride evident in her voice though it caught on the words.

For all her brave front, Ciaran could see the way her shoulders shook, how she clutched at the torn fabric of her gown as though it might shield her from memories still fresh and raw. Ciaran studied her in the dappled moonlight. Her mask remained firmly in place, but he could see now how the fear she fought to hide mixed with her fierce spirit burned behind those blue eyes.

Though she stood tall despite her torn gown, when she took a step forward, her knees nearly buckled beneath her.

Ciaran reached out and steadied her, his large hand gentle against her elbow. “Here now,” he murmured, guiding her to sit on a nearby fallen log. “Take a moment, lass.”

She sank down, her legs finally betraying the strength she’d fought to maintain. In the silvered light, he could see the pallor beneath her flushed cheeks, the way she held herself as though one wrong move might shatter her composure.

“Are ye truly alright?” he asked, crouching before her, his voice softer than he’d intended. This close, he could see the fine tremors running through her, smell the sweet heather scent of her hair beneath the fear and exertion.

“Aye. I’m fine,” she answered, lifting her chin. “Thank ye fer yer… intervention.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the forest quiet save for the distant hoot of an owl and the drumming of his own heart. The moonlight caught in her hair, turning the loose strands to liquid silver. Despite her torn gown and the smudge of dirt on her cheek, she carried herself with the bearing of nobility.

The memory of her fighting—kicking, clawing, using her small dagger with no practiced skill—flashed through his mind. A small smile turned big until laughter rumbled up from his chest, unexpected and deep.

“Something amuses ye, me laird?” she asked sharply.

His laugh grew louder. “I’ve never seen a lass fight like that,” he managed between breaths. “Three armed men twice yer size, and ye had them howling. I could enlist ye in me ranks tomorrow and make me enemies tremble.”

For a moment she stared at him, then her own laughter joined his, a musical sound that lightened the forest darkness. “I wasnae sure me knee found its mark on that big one,” she admitted, “but his face told me otherwise.”

The shared laughter cleared the battle haze from Ciaran’s mind. This woman was no ordinary noble daughter, taught only to embroider and please a future husband. There was steel beneath her fine gown.

“Ye have a name, lass?” he asked when their laughter subsided. “Or should I simply call ye ‘the warrior in silk’?”

She turned away, searching the forest floor. “Me horse,” she said, ignoring his question.

Ciaran spotted it among the trees and walked over to it, taking its reins. “Allow me tae escort ye home. After what just happened, it would be madness tae let yer travel alone.”

“I thank ye fer yer help, Laird MacCraith, but I can manage from here.” She moved to step past him.

Ciaran stepped smoothly into her path, his mouth curving into a knowing smile. “Ye called me by name at the ball as well, if I recall. Strange fer a lass who has nay name nor clan.”

His eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he studied her masked face. “Were ye there just fer me then? Seeking out the fearsome Laird MacCraith?”

“Dinnae flatter yerself,” she retorted, though her cheeks flared with color visible even in the dim light. “Everyone kens who ye are. ‘Tis hardly a secret when ye command attention wherever ye go.”

Her quick response only deepened his interest. This woman had spirit—first fleeing from him at the ball, now standing defiant despite her ordeal. Whatever game she played, he found himself increasingly unwilling to let her vanish into the night.

Ciaran caught her arm, gentle but firm. “Three men just tried tae carry ye off intae the night, and ye think I’ll let ye wander these woods alone?” He searched her masked face, trying to place her features among the daughters of nearby clans. “Who are ye, and why willnae ye tell me where yer home is?”

She stiffened beneath his touch. “Release me, sir.”

“Nae until I ken ye’re safe.”

“I am safe! I was handling meself fine, just as I was before ye came tae me at the ball,” she retorted, pulling free.

Ciaran raised an eyebrow. “Handling yerself fine? As I recall, ye were almost on the floor before I caught ye. And after that, ye seemed willing enough when me arm was around yer waist.”

Color rose in her cheeks, visible even in the dim light. “That was… I was…”

“Yes?” He couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips.

Her eyes flashed. “Ye’re insufferable.”

“And ye’re injured, lost, and stubborn as a mule.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair, loosened from its tie during the fight. “Look, I dinnae ken who ye are or why ye’re hiding it, but those men will return, likely with more. These woods arenae safe.”

She took a step back. “I ken these paths better than ye think.”

“Aye, and so dae they, it seems.” Ciaran gestured to the forest around them. “They kent exactly where tae wait fer ye.”

Her confidence wavered, eyes darting to the shadows between trees. Ciaran pressed his advantage.

“Me castle is less than an hour’s ride. Ye can rest there, tend that cut properly, and I’ll have me men escort ye home, but only if ye tell me which clan ye belong tae.” When she hesitated, he added softly,

“I cannae—”

“Ye can and ye will,” he said, his voice taking on the tone that silenced arguments in his council chamber. “Fer if ye think I’ll stand here debating while ye bleed on forest leaves, ye’re sorely mistaken.”

Her shoulders squared. “Ye cannae command me, Laird MacCraith. I am nae one of yer clan.”

“Then from which clan are ye?” he challenged.

Silence stretched between them. She glanced toward the path she’d been following, calculating. Ciaran watched her, fascinated by the play of thoughts behind those expressive eyes.

“I willnae tell ye me name or me home,” she finally said. “But neither can I remain in these woods.”

“Then we have only one option.” Ciaran moved toward his horse, which had remained calm throughout the skirmish, trained for battle as it was. “Ye’ll come tae Castle MacCraith.”

“I willnae.”

He turned back to her, amusement fading. “Fight me all ye want, lass, but ye’re coming with me. One way or another.”

Something in his tone must have convinced her of his resolve. She stared at him for a long moment, measuring him as one might an opponent across a battlefield.

“Until dawn,” she conceded finally. “I will stay until dawn, and then I must go.”

Triumph rose in Ciaran’s chest. But it was not enough. “Nay, lass. I’ll nae let ye go until ye tell me yer clan and I can see ye safely tae yer home.”

He approached his horse, a massive black stallion that towered over her slight frame, and tied the mare’s reins to its saddle, so it would follow him. Before she could protest, he placed his hands at her waist and lifted her effortlessly onto his saddle.

The contact sent a jolt through him, like the ones he felt while dancing with her.

Careful, man. Ye ken naething about her.

As he lifted her, the silk ribbon of her mask caught on his sleeve. The delicate covering fell away, revealing her face in the moonlight. Her gasp was immediate, her hand flying up to cover herself, but it was too late.

His breath caught in his throat, heat surging through his veins. The lass was bonnie beyond measure—her high cheekbones flushed with color, those fierce blue eyes that had haunted him now framed by long lashes that swept against her skin. His gaze dropped to her lips, full and slightly parted in surprise, the bottom one bearing the smallest cut from her ordeal.

“So, the mystery lass finally shows her face,” he teased, attempting to make light of the moment.

Ciaran bent down, retrieving the fallen mask from the forest floor, his eyes never leaving her now-exposed features. She leaned slightly forward, causing a cascade of dark ginger hair to tumble over her shoulder, drawing his eye to the gentle curve where it stopped just above the swell of her breast. The thin fabric of her torn gown clung to her body, revealing hints of soft curves he had felt while dancing.

Christ!

The word a prayer and curse combined as desire crashed through him. This was no mere appreciation of beauty—this was hunger, primal and demanding.

There was something vaguely familiar about her face that tugged at his memory, though he couldn’t place it. Instinctively, he slipped the mask into his cloak pocket. “Ye sure we havenae met, lass? Something about ye…”

But she cut him off. “Let’s go. By dawn ye’ll likely forget ye ever saw me.” Now that the mask was off, he could see her expression and she seemed slightly alarmed.

I’ll ken what ye’re hiding before daybreak.

Yet as he swung up behind her, his chest pressed against her back, arms encircling her to take the reins, Ciaran knew he was treading dangerous ground. Something about this woman called to him in a way no other had.

“Hold tight,” he murmured, his breath stirring the fine hairs near her ear. He felt her slight shiver and smiled to himself as they set off through the moonlit forest.

‘The warrior in silk’ sat rigidly at first, trying to maintain distance where none was possible. Gradually, as the horse navigated the uneven terrain, her body yielded to the rhythm of the ride, softening against him. The scent of her hair—sweet roses mingling with night air—filled his senses with every breath.

What in the devil’s name is wrong with ye, man?

Ciaran had had beautiful women from powerful clans across the Highlands presented to him like prized mares at auction. Daughters of lairds and chieftains had smiled and flirted, offering political alliances along with their dowries and bodies, yet none had affected him like this nameless lass.

With each breath, her back pressed against his chest. With each stride of the horse, her hips shifted between his thighs. The heat of her body seeped through the layers of their clothing, igniting something primal within him.

He became acutely aware of every curve where they touched, the delicate line of her neck mere inches from his lips, the way her breath quickened when his arms tightened around her to navigate a steep descent.

When she turned slightly to glance at the passing landscape, the moonlight caught the pulse fluttering at her throat. Ciaran fought the sudden, overwhelming urge to press his mouth to that pulse point, to taste the salt of her skin, to feel her heartbeat quicken against his tongue.

Bloody Hell, man. Compose yerself. Ye’re a laird, nae some young lad with his first woman.

Yet there was something intoxicating about her—thats mysterious, fierce creature who fought like a wildcat and whose body now melted against his own. Perhaps it was the contradiction of her refined speech and savage defense, or the way she’d challenged him when most cowered.

Whatever the cause, the effect was undeniable: blood rushing hot through his veins, his body responding in ways that would soon become impossible to hide if she pressed any closer.

They rode in silence, the forest giving way to rolling moorland. Fingers of mist curled around the horse’s legs as they climbed a gentle rise. Ciaran heard her take in a sharp breath as Castle MacCraith appeared on the horizon, its towers silhouetted against the star-strewn sky.

“Home,” he said simply, unable to keep the pride from his voice.

The castle stood upon a rocky outcrop, ancient stone walls rising from the cliff face as if they’d grown from the very mountain. Torches lined the approach, their flames dancing in the night breeze, guiding them home.

“It’s magnificent,” she whispered, the first words she’d spoken since they’d begun their journey.

As they approached the gatehouse, a guard’s voice called down from the battlements. “Who goes there?”

“Yer laird, ye blind fool,” Ciaran shouted back, amusement coloring his tone. “Open the gates.”

“At once, m’laird!” came the immediate response, followed by shouted orders to raise the portcullis.

The heavy wooden doors swung inward. They rode into the torch-lit courtyard where a stable boy rushed forward to take the reins.

Ciaran dismounted first, then reached up for her. His hands spanned her waist as he lifted her down, allowing her body to slide against his for a moment longer than necessary before setting her on her feet. Her cheeks flushed, visible even in the flickering torchlight.

“Laird MacCraith.” A woman with iron-gray hair and a severe expression hurried across the courtyard. “We werenae expecting ye back taenight.” Her eyes widened at the sight of Isolde, taking in the torn gown and disheveled appearance.

“Elspeth,” Ciaran nodded to his housekeeper. “We have a guest who requires attention. She was attacked on the road.”

“Saints preserve us,” Elspeth muttered, already assessing Isolde’s injuries with a practiced eye. “I’ll prepare a chamber and send fer the healer.”

“Nay need fer the healer,” Ciaran said. “Bring me the herbs and ointments.”

Elspeth’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline, but she knew better than to question her laird. “As ye wish. I’ll ready the blue chamber in the guest wing.”

“Nay,” Ciaran said, surprising himself. “The Dun room.”

A moment of shocked silence followed. The MacKenzie room was reserved for only the most honored guests—or family. Elspeth’s mouth opened, then closed, before she nodded and hurried away.

Several of his household warriors had gathered at a discreet distance, curious about the unexpected arrival and the unknown woman at their laird’s side. Ciaran could already see the questions in their eyes, the seeds of gossip that would spread through the castle by morning.

“Callum,” he called to his captain of the guard. “Double the watch taenight. There may be riders about in our territory.”

“Aye, m’laird.” The burly man bowed slightly, his hand going instinctively to his sword hilt. “Shall I send scouts tae the borders?”

“At first light,” Ciaran replied. “And send word tae Finlay. Tell him I require his counsel on an urgent matter.”

As the men dispersed to carry out his orders, Ciaran turned to find his mysterious guest watching him with those penetrating blue eyes, a question in their depths. The torchlight played across her features, highlighting the proud tilt of her chin despite her bedraggled state.

“Come,” he said, offering his arm. “Let’s tend tae that wound.”

She hesitated, then placed her gloved hand lightly on his forearm. “Ye need nae bother yerself, m’laird. I’m perfectly capable—”

“I’ve nay doubt ye are,” he interrupted, leading her toward the keep. “But humor me. I rarely get to practice my healing skills on someone who isnae a blood-soaked warrior twice yer size.”

Her lips twitched, almost a smile. “And how dae ye ken I’m nae simply a small warrior?”

Ciaran looked down at her, taking in the fine bone structure of her face, the elegant posture that spoke of years of training in a noble household. “Oh, I’ve nay doubt ye’re a warrior, lass,” he said softly. “Just nae the kind I usually patch up after battle.”

As they entered the great hall, servants hurried to light additional torches. The massive stone hearth blazed with fresh logs, casting dancing shadows across ancient tapestries and gleaming weapons mounted on the walls. Ciaran watched her eyes widen as she took in the grandeur of his ancestral home and felt an unexpected surge of pride.

Who was this woman who fought like a wildcat, spoke like nobility, and now looked around his castle with barely concealed wonder? By dawn, he intended to know.

 

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Chapter 1

November 1715,

Keppoch Castle, Lochaber, the Scottish Highlands

“Saoirse, ye’re hurtin’ me. ’Tis way too tight.” Lady Agnes MacDonald exclaimed as she braced herself with her arms against the bedpost while her maid laced her into her corset.

“Yer maither says I must tie it at tight as possible and snatch yer stomach,” Saoirse replied, but in her usual kindly fashion, she relented enough to loosen the lacing so her mistress could breathe more easily and stopped feeling pain in her belly. For the moment, at least. “Here, put this on,” she added, fetching a voluminous travel cloak from the bed and draping it around Agnes’s shoulders. It enveloped her small frame from head to toe. “It’ll hide a multitude of sins,” Saoirse told her with a wink.

“Thank ye, Saoirse,” Agnes told her with gratitude. “Now, have we packed everythin’ I’ll need?” She glanced around the room to see if they had forgotten anything. The chamber she had occupied for the whole of her twenty years seemed stripped to the bone, all the little personal items she had gathered over the years gone, packed and loaded onto a separate carriage that would follow them the next day. All that was left was the furniture, a few ornaments, some unwanted items of clothing, and a rumpled coverlet on the four-poster bed where she had spent many idle, happy hours daydreaming, reading, and sleeping.

“Nay, I’ve checked and checked twice already,” Saoirse replied, picking up a large tapestry bag that was almost bursting and going to open the chamber door. “We’re ready tae go.”

Agnes collected her reticule from the vanity and followed the maid out into the hallway with a heavy heart. “I wonder how long it’ll be before I come back here again tae me old chambers. Maybe I’ll nae come back at all,” she said sadly. The thought of leaving the only home she had ever known was both daunting and heartbreaking.

“Now, none of that sort of talk,” Saoirse chided gently as they made their way along the hallway in the direction of the staircase. “Of course, ye’ll be back. Folks go away from their homes all the time. Look at me, for instance. And they live tae tell the tale, and so will ye, me lady. So stop yer mitherin’ and cheer up. ’Tis nae the end of the world. But we’d best keep an eye out when we get downstairs. We dinnae wantae bump intae yer faither on the way, eh?”

That had Agnes quickening her steps as they started down the stairs. She had weathered too many black looks of angry disapproval from her father in the last day or so to last her a lifetime. He must be avoided if at all possible, and she had no expectation he would come and wave her off.

“Besides, ’tis nae as though we’re goin’ tae the moon. ’Tis only France, and that’s just across the water. People go there all the time. I’ll be with ye, and ye’re goin’ tae stay with yer own family as well. Really, me lady, in the circumstances, there’s little tae complain of,” the ever-practical Saoirse said on the way down.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, their booted footsteps noiseless on the thick rugs as they made their way down the broad, lamplit corridor leading to the castle’s main hallway.

“Aye, I ken ye’re right, Saoirse, but I cannae help feelin’ sad and a bit nervous. I’ve never been tae France afore, and me Aunt Morag and her family are practically strangers,” Agnes confessed to her trusted confidante.

“Aye, and I’ve never been tae France afore either. At least ye can speak French! I cannae, so I truly will be among strangers. But I’ve heard the French gentlemen are very handsome and charmin’ though, so it cannae be all bad. Maybe I’ll come back with a nice French husband, eh? That would be a turn up for the books, would it nae? Think of what me ma would say tae that. She’d have a fit!”

Agnes managed a weak smile at that scenario, being well acquainted with Saoirse’s eccentric mother. She was truly grateful for her maid’s ceaseless attempts to keep her spirits up, even if they were not entirely successful in easing the general sense of unease that held her in its grasp.

“I must go ahead of ye, me lady, tae make sure the hand luggage has been put in the right carriage,” Saoirse muttered, hurrying ahead of Agnes along the corridor, clutching the bulging tapestry bag in her arms as if it were a fat child.

“Aye, all right,” Agnes said, pleased to have an excuse to dawdle a little and take a last look at the familiar surroundings, knowing she would not see them again for some time. Years probably. Things had happened so fast since the day before, her head was still spinning, and she had not had time to say goodbye properly to anything or anyone she valued, or so she felt.

She had stopped to take a final look at her favourite painting, when a hand clamped around her arm, and she found herself being pulled backwards.

“What-what—!” she gasped, bewildered when she was dragged bodily into the cupboard on the opposite side of the wall, into stuffy darkness, to be crushed against a large, warm body.

“Haud yer wheesht, sister,” came a familiar voice next to her ear, low and conspiratorial.

Relief flooded through her. “Duncan! What d’ye think ye’re daein’?” she cried, before he clamped a hand over her mouth. “Wheesht, I told ye. D’ye want Faither tae hear us?” he hissed at her. “Listen, here he comes,” he added in a whisper.

Frozen, Agnes listened. Heavy footsteps were coming along the corridor, unmistakably their father’s. She and Duncan held their breath, and Agnes wondered why he seemed as concerned as she was that they should not be discovered by him. Duncan was the son and heir, literally the blue-eyed boy in Laird MacDonald’s view. The steps passed in front of the cupboard door, and she heard her father’s voice.

“Apparently, he’s on his way here now,” he was saying, sounding none too pleased. “He could arrive at any moment. Dinnae keep him waitin’. As soon as he gets here, show him straight tae me study.”

“Aye, me laird.” Agnes recognized the voice of Willy Grey, her father’s steward, answering him.

Thankfully, the pair continued on past the cupboard and into the depths of the castle. The siblings both breathed out. After a few moments of intense listening to make sure the danger had passed, Duncan opened the door a crack and peeked out. “The coast is clear,” he said stepping in to the corridor and giving Agnes his hand to help her out too.

“Duncan, why did ye have tae drag me intae that cupboard?” she quizzed him in irritation as she brushed dust from her cloak.

“Ye must hurry, Agnes,” he told her, his voice low but filled with urgency. She grew more irritated when he took hold of her arm again and began pulling her along the corridor, forcing her to trot to keep up with his long strides.

“Whatever fer? There’s nay rush,” she replied, wondering what the emergency was.

“Aye, there is. I’m nae jokin’. Ye really must hurry. Maither’s already in the carriage in the courtyard waitin’ fer ye.”

“What? Why?” Agnes asked, puzzled as they rushed along.

“Because Faither had a message just half an hour ago tae say that Laird Tavish MacDonnell of Glengarry is on his way here, and he’s due tae arrive any minute. He cannae see ye, and ye must be gone before he gets here.”

The news was indeed alarming. Realizing that Duncan was right, she had to be away from the castle before Laird MacDonnell arrived—to avoid embarrassing her parents—she stepped up her pace to keep level with Duncan, hurrying alongside him down the corridor, heading for towards the castle’s main exit. “What’s he comin’ here fer anyway?” he asked.

“He wants yer hand in marriage, Agnes.”

“He what?!” She suddenly stopped dead, shaking off his grip as shock and disbelief ran through her. She had no idea MacDonnell even knew of her existence. “He wants tae wed me?”

Duncan grabbed her arm again and resumed his rapid pace. “Aye. He wrote tae Faither sayin’ he wants tae marry ye, and Faither was keen tae accept the offer.”

Agnes bristled with fury. “He was gonnae accept it? Well, what a nerve! He wanted tae wed me tae that man, and he never even consulted me on the matter.”

“Dinnae be a child, sister,” Duncan said matter-of-factly as they sped along. “Ye’re the daughter of a laird. It was tae have been a strategic marriage, a union of alliance between the two clans. Yer opinion would have been neither here nor there. ‘Tis nae required that ye should like yer husband in such marriages.”

“But he couldnae have seriously expected me tae wed a monster like MacDonnell?” she said, her anger at her father flaring as the full implications of what Duncan was telling her sank in. It occurred to her that, while the situation she found herself was far from ideal, she had in fact had a lucky escape from what would undoubtedly have been a life of misery. MacDonnell was a famously brutal man, warlike and violent.

“Well, ‘tis out of the question now. In the circumstances, Faither had nae choice but tae write back tae MacDonnell refusin’ his offer fer yer hand,” her brother explained, picking up their already rapid pace.

“So, why’s he comin’ here then?” Agnes asked, puffing along next to him.

“I’ve nae idea. Maybe because he hasnae seen Faither’s letter yet or maybe because he has and he’s furious about bein’ turned down. It daesnae matter now. Faither has nae choice but meet him face tae face and reject his offer in person.”

“Ach, Lord above!” Agnes murmured, furious at her father for arranging such a dreadful match for her. As far as she was concerned, it served him right if he had to suffer the embarrassment of telling MacDonnell to his face that his offer of marriage had been rejected. “I’m glad I’ll nae have tae marry him,” she added.

“Ach, but it brings us many problems,” Duncan said.

“What d’ye mean by that? I suppose ye’d like tae see me wed tae MacDonnell as well, is that it?” she demanded, somewhat hurt as well as offended by her brother’s attitude.

“Ach, Jaysus! Of course, I wouldnae, ye wee fool. But d’ye nae ken what sort of man MacDonnell is?”

“Aye, a cruel brute.”

“Exactly. He’s unlikely tae take the refusal well. He likes tae get what he wants, and if he’s thwarted, he’ll likely resort tae makin’ war against us in revenge.”

“Ye mean he could start a feud with Faither?” Agnes asked with a mixture of fear and guilt as the true horror of the situation she had wrought started to dawn on her. Was she going to be indirectly responsible for starting a war where her clansfolk and even her family members could die? It felt overwhelming.

“Aye, ’tis a big risk,” Duncan replied as they reached the castle’s entrance hall, where Duncan halted them by the main door.

“But what will Faither say tae him?” Agnes asked anxiously.

Duncan let go of her hand. “Wait,” he instructed, opening the door slightly and looking outside for signs of the visitor. “He’s nae here yet. Come on, hurry.” Grabbing Agnes hand again, he pulled her outside and down the steps into the torchlit courtyard.

“He’s gonnae tell him that ye’re ill and at death’s door,” he explained as they walked rapidly towards the waiting carriage, which stood a few yards in front of them. The breath of the horses billowed out like clouds of white smoke into the freezing air, and Saoirse stood by the door, hugging herself and stamping her feet against the cold, waiting for Agnes.

“Why is he gonnae tell him that?” a mystified Agnes asked as Duncan hurried her on, scanning the area for hints of the visitor.

“What else can he say? Ye’ve nae left him a lot of choice. He can hardly tell him the truth.” They stopped next to Saoirse. Any misunderstanding between the siblings fell away as Duncan kissed Agnes’ cheek, and the pair embraced each other warmly.

“I’ll miss ye, Braither,” she said truthfully, hating the tremor in her voice. She needed to appear strong.

“Dinnae worry, Sister. France is yer best option now. Ye’ll be safe there, and I’ll be over tae visit ye as soon as I can.”

“Aye, thank ye, Duncan. Take care of yersel’ until then,” she told him, determinedly holding back her tears.

He opened the carriage door and handed her up the steps, then helped Saoirse in after her. While she and Agnes settled in their seats, he poked his head inside and said quickly, “Goodbye fer now. Have a safe journey, all of ye. I’ll see ye soon, Maither, when ye return.”

“Aye, Son,” Lady MacDonald replied despondently from her seat opposite the two young women. Duncan closed the door and banged on the side of the vehicle to signal to the driver to be off. The carriage moved rapidly out through the castle gates and down the twisting road. They were heading north to the port of Aberdeen where, in three days’ time, they would board a ship bound for mainland France.

In the darkness of the carriage, Agnes looked across at her mother. Even at fifty, Lady Fiona MacDonald was still considered to be a beautiful woman. On this cold night, her petite frame was swathed in furs. Her soft, once golden-brown hair, now slightly faded with age, was hidden beneath an elegant fur hat. Her delicate, almost girlish features peeped out from within the nest of fur like the face of a perfect little doll.

But it was her expression of deep sadness and disappointment that struck at Agnes like a knife, because she knew she was the cause of it. She thought it a mercy that the dim light in the carriage prevented her from looking into the blue grey of mother’s eyes and feeling even worse about the pain she knew she was inflicting upon her. It was far, far more agonizing to hurt her mother than face the harsh, cold anger of her father.

However, despite all this, Agnes was too proud to abase herself, to cry and beg for forgiveness from either of her parents. No, she was determined to hold her head high, be strong, to show she was not ashamed of what she had done. So, when she finally spoke to her mother as the carriage bowled swiftly down the well-used and therefore relatively even road, her tone was unwavering and forthright.

“Maither, is it right that ye and Faither are seriously plannin’ tae tell Laird MacDonnell that I’m at death’s door with some sort of sickness?”

Her mother looked at her sharply. “Well, what else d’ye imagine we could say? The truth? That ye’re ruined and can never be a nobleman’s wife? Tellin’ him yer life is in danger from some sort of illness is the only thing we can say that might, I say might, nae offend him and start a war. The clan is nae strong enough tae fight him. That was why we needed the marriage alliance with him in the first place. Which ye’ve now wrecked by yer irresponsible actions.”

Agnes was once more taken aback by the harshness of her tone, which was so unusual for her. But her mother had not finished it seemed and went on in the same manner. “I mean, with the situation as it is, ’tis nae as though ye can wed another man powerful enough tae take MacDonnell on, is it? If we put it about that ye’ve died, then we’d risk gossip gettin’ out that it isnae true, which if MacDonnell gets wind of, will also likely mean war.

“And it would mean ye couldnae return tae Scotland without putting yersel’ and all of us at great risk. Ye’ve backed us intae a corner, Daughter. This is the only way.” She subsided angrily into her furs like a disgruntled chicken with badly ruffled feathers.

Agnes knew it was all true, every word. Yet despite the danger posed by MacDonnell and her feelings of guilt over the situation—or perhaps defensiveness because of it—something in her rebelled against the web of lies her parents were spinning around her, which they expected her to simply accept. Would the truth, though embarrassing to them, have been so bad to admit? Was this farce she was being forced to play out to prevent Laird MacDonnell from making war on their clan? Or was it to save face?

Acting on impulse, she met her mother’s angry gaze defiantly. Pulling aside her cloak, she shifted in her seat until her back was turned to Saoirse and said to the maid, “Saoirse, will ye unlace this bloody corset, fer God’s sake? I think me maither’s tryin’ tae kill me. I cannae breathe.”

Saoirse looked hesitantly from one to the other of them. But finally, being the faithful friend and helper she was to her young mistress, or perhaps figuring that since she and Agnes would soon be in France, there was little Lady MacDonald could do to punish her, she did as she was asked.

Her mother shook her head. “Ye ken, Agnes, I hardly recognize ye. Where’s that calm and dutiful daughter of old, eh? Ye were always sensible, even as a child, stayin’ out of trouble, respectful and obedient tae me and yer faither. But now look at ye. A reckless woman with nay regard fer either her own good or that of others, a woman who’s made a huge mistake that’s gonnae ruin her life and maybe start a war.”

Provoked by her mother’s accusation, Agnes placed her hand ostentatiously on her belly and said, “Ye can call me what ye like, Maither, but I’ll nae allow ye or anyone tae call me bairn a mistake.”

Her mother snorted in derision. “Ach, ye’re so proud of yersel’, are ye nae? But ye’re a foolish child if ye believe ye can keep the faither’s name a secret forever.”

“I’ll nae be tellin’ ye nor anyone if I dinnae choose tae. I’ll keep it a secret if I havetae take it tae me grave!” Agnes snapped back, her nerves at breaking point with the recent news and heartily sick of having been grilled on the subject of the father’s identity by both her parents for hours.

And ye can bet that fer as long as I live, I’ll nae be tellin’ Faither who the faither of me bairn is!

Chapter 2

Five years later,

July 1720, on the road to Keppoch Castle

The carriage wheels kept up a steady rhythm as the vehicle rolled along the road, heading for the home Agnes had not seen for five long years. She was back on Scottish soil once again, unexpectedly.

She had returned because her Aunt Morag, with whom she had been living in France, had succumbed to the feverish sickness which had been sweeping across Europe for several months. The poor woman was gravely ill, and though Agnes hated to leave her, it was decided that she and her four-year old daughter Roisin would be safer if they returned to Scotland until the danger had passed. Naturally, the ever-faithful Saoirse was accompanying them home.

It had been a long and tiring journey and by the time they drew near to Castle Keppoch, it was late. The sun had just sunk below the horizon, staining the sky in startling shades of pink, apricot, and lemon, which were gradually being overtaken by darkness. The July night was warm, and the interior of the carriage felt stuffy to Agnes, although it might have been partly due to her restlessness. She was wide awake, itching to reach the castle and get out of the carriage.

In contrast, Saoirse was dozing, her dark head bobbing against the back of the seat with every turn of the wheels and mercifully, an over-excited Roisin had finally fallen asleep on Agnes’ lap. Agnes was absently stroking her daughter’s silky hair as she slumbered, her little thumb in her mouth.

In the quietude, Agnes was thinking of Duncan. She was looking forward to seeing him most of all. He and her mother had last visited them in France six months ago, but it seemed like an eternity now. When Roisin had been born, Agnes’ mother had been smitten with her granddaughter, and Agnes knew Roisin would never lack for love from that quarter.

Likewise, Duncan had taken to being an uncle like a duck to water. Roisin adored him, and the pair had spent hours playing together. Agnes delighted in witnessing this different side to her otherwise tough brother, a softer, protective side which told her he would make a wonderful father to his own children one day.

And yet, she was filled with trepidation, hence her restlessness. Because there was someone else at the castle awaiting them, someone she could not be sure would welcome Roisin so warmly. Her father. Once she had longed for his approval, but now, she no longer cared very much if he still insisted on treating her coldly. She would happily return the favour. But she would not tolerate any behaviour from anyone that made Roisin feel in the least bit unwanted or unloved. And of all her close family, her father was the one she feared was most likely to do exactly that.

As far as she was concerned, her trepidation was based on sound supposition. He had treated her coldly before she left for France, and he had not once troubled himself to write to her or make the journey to France to see her and his granddaughter in the entire five years she had been away.

He had always been a stern, unemotional father, not given to displays of affection towards his children. He had never been cruel, but he inspired more respect than love.

Agnes had come to realize over her years in France that he had perceived her pregnancy as an attack. It had made him feel he had failed to manage his daughter, and the disgrace she had brought upon him by doing so had been too much to forgive. She suspected that was still very much the case.

Such were the thoughts that were occupying her mind as the carriage rolled ever closer to the castle. She was suddenly shocked out of them by the sound of shouts coming from outside the vehicle, which suddenly drew to a shuddering halt. So abrupt was the stop, that Saoirse instantly awoke. Fortunately, cushioned on Agnes’ lap, Roisin slept on.

“Are we there, me lady,” Saoirse asked in a voice blurred by sleep, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

“Nay, we’ve stopped on the road. Listen, there’s some sort of ruckus goin’ on outside,” Agnes told her hurriedly, her anxiety rising. They listened as the shouts of several men grew louder, more insistent, coming from immediately outside the vehicle. Needing to know what was going on and if it posed a threat to Roisin, Agnes sat up carefully to avoid disturbing the child, leaned over to the window, and raised the blind a little.

Peering out, trying to see what the cause of the commotion could be, she heard running feet but glimpsed only fast-moving shadows in the gathering darkness.

“Ach, ’tis too dark tae see anythin’ properly,” she told Saoirse in frustration, leaning back from the window. Yet still the shouts persisted, hard, sharp, unintelligible bursts of sound that gave Agnes the unsettling feeling of being encircled by a pack of dogs

The two women locked eyes, and Agnes could clearly see her own fear reflected back at her in Saoirse’s.

“I dinnae like this one bit, me lady,” the maid murmured, glancing worriedly at Roisin.

Agnes called up the driver. “Coachman, what is happening? Why have we stopped? Have we broken down?”

It was slightly reassuring to hear the driver’s voice come back strongly, “Nay, me lady, but—” His reply was suddenly cut off by a blood-curdling scream, followed by a loud thud.

Agnes and Saoirse froze, staring at each other in undisguised alarm. “Me lady, I think we’re bein’ attacked by brigands,” her maid hissed.

“Oh, Lord preserve us, Saoirse, I think ye’re right,” Agnes answered in a panicked whisper, starting to shake. Roisin, startled awake by the scream and confused and frightened by the shouting from outside, started to cry.

She clung to Agnes wide-eyed, her little face white with fear. “Mama, what was the man screamin’ fer? Is he hurt?” she stammered, hardly able to speak.

Despite her rising panic, Agnes stroked Roisin’s head and tried to reassure her. “Nay, darlin’, he’s all right. But there’s some bad men outside, and ye need tae hide,” she said, hearing the tremor in her own voice. She opened her cloak. “Come here, under me cloak. Now, ye must be a brave lass and dinnae make a peep or move until I tell ye ’tis safe, all right?”

Roisin nodded, tears streaming down her face as she scooted beneath the cloak and huddled against her mother, hidden from sight once Agnes folded it over her, thanking the heavens above that Roisin was a smaller child than other’s her age.

“What shall we dae? We have naethin’ tae defend oursel’s with,” Agnes whispered to Saoirse. “What are ye daein’?” she asked, seeing Saoirse frantically rummaging in her old tapestry bag, the same one she had brought with them when they had left five years before. It was stuffed with hers and Roisin’s things as well as a host of other useful items.

“Aye, we dae, we have these,” Saoirse whispered back, handing Agnes a dirk. She had another for herself, it appeared. She unsheathed the blade, while Agnes only stared at hers.

“But I’ve never used…” She hesitated to say knife in case it frightened Roisin further. So instead, she said, “… one of these before. I dinnae what tae dae with it.”

“Well, I’m nay expert either, but there cannae be much tae it,” Saoirse said, brandishing the blade in front of her. “I’ll take that door, and ye take the other, and if anyone tries tae get in, do this.” She demonstrated with a series of quick, darting thrusts at an imaginary enemy before shifting over to station herself at the door where Agnes had tried to look outside. “Ye need tae take it out of its sheath first,” she added emphatically, noticing Agnes had not moved and was simply staring at the dirk in her hand.

“Aye, right,” Agnes said numbly, pulling the knife out with shaking fingers and gripping the hilt. The blade was about ten inches long and looked frighteningly sharp. But any qualms she might have had about using it on another person or dying in the attempt were overtaken by her motherly instinct to protect Roisin at all costs.

“Aim fer the chest,” Saoirse instructed, holding her tall body stiffly between them and the door, the knife in her outstretched hand pointed at it.

Agnes shifted slightly, making sure Roisin was positioned between them beneath her cloak, so she would be protected if they were boarded. The little mite clutched her mother’s waist, her small body trembling, but she made not a peep.

“It’ll be all right, darlin’,” Agnes whispered, her arm around Roisin outside the cloak, trying to reassure the little girl as best she could. Then, the very thing she and Saoirse had been dreading actually occurred, for the carriage door on her side was suddenly wrenched open. Her heart leaped into her throat as she pointed the knife at the man who appeared in the doorway.

He was scruffily dressed, and he was wielding a dirk. When he saw the two women, his dark eyes gleamed, and his unshaven face split into a wolfish grin. “Well, well, well, looks like ’tis our lucky day. Good evenin’ tae ye, ladies,” he said in a rough voice, leering at them. Agnes felt a wave of fear and revulsion wash over her as his eyes swept over her body. She knew very well what happened to women caught by brigands on the road before they were murdered.

“What a fine lookin’ pair ye are. Ye willnae mind if I come and join ye, will ye?” the brigand said, putting his foot on the step and heaving himself up, clearly about to get in. Agnes was shaking so much, she could hardly grip the dirk. She heard Saoirse moving behind her but could not see what she was doing.

“Och, two feisty ones, eh? That’s what I like. A bit of spirit,” the brigand said, obviously enjoying their terror.

“Dinnae even try tae come in here, ye robbin’ bastard,” Saoirse swore fiercely at the man, lunging forward protectively in front of Agnes and stabbing at him with the dirk. “Run, me lady, run!” she cried, doing her best to keep the brigand at bay.

“Ach, ye harridan, drop yer blade, or I’ll cut yer throat!” the man yelled in pain as Saoirse’s knife slashed at his hands and wrists. In a panic, afraid for the maid’s life, Agnes dithered for a moment, hesitating to leave her. But when Saoirse shouted again, “Run! Get away!” she realized Roisin’s safety had to come first.

Still clutching the dagger and holding tightly to the little body hidden beneath her cloak with one arm, she rushed to the opposite door, unlatched it with shaking fingers, and clambered awkwardly as fast as she could out onto the road. As soon as her feet hit the ground, she took off running into the trees, bent on finding a hiding place in the darkness. A shrill scream of pain from behind halted her, and when she turned to look over her shoulder, she was horrified to see Saoirse grappling with the brigand inside the carriage.

The man had hold of Saoirse’s wrist and was twisting it cruelly, making her scream in pain and forcing her to drop the dirk before shoving her violently backwards.

“Saoirse!” Agnes screamed as the maid impacted the side of the door with a thud, fearing she was badly hurt. But Saoirse confounded her and the brigand by recovering almost immediately. Agnes watched as she hurled herself bodily through the door, hitting the ground in a crouch before pinpointing Agnes in the tree line. “Run, find a place tae hide!” the maid shouted frantically, racing towards her.

But just as Agnes turned to start running again, from the corner of her eye, she saw the brigand leap from the carriage and sprint after them, brandishing his dirk. “Ye may as well give up runnin’, ye ken I’ll catch up tae ye, and it’ll be the worse fer ye when I dae!” he yelled threateningly. Her heart hammering with terror, with Saoirse hot on her heels, Agnes fled. She pushed herself to run faster, clinging to the desperate hope they would be able to outpace him and lose themselves in the forest. Yet she knew her hope of escape was in vain.

Trying to negotiate the uneven forest floor in the dark at speed was proving too hazardous. She sobbed with fear and frustration as she ran, desperately keeping Roisin clasped to her hip with one arm, while tree roots and debris threatened to trip her up with every step. Her skirts snagged on the undergrowth and tore, and she narrowly dodged colliding with tree trunks that loomed out of nowhere. It was as though the forest itself was conspiring to slow her down.

Agnes’ terror mounted to hear the brigand crashing after them through the trees, cursing them both roundly as he gained on her and Saoirse. The situation seemed hopeless, but she was determined to keep Roisin safe, no matter if it cost her her life. Even as she ran on blindly, she tried to marshal her thoughts, to come up with some sort of plan to save her daughter.

I still have the dirk, she thought, clutching the handle of the blade tightly in her free hand. I need tae find somewhere tae hide Roisin, then make a stand. I’m gonnae have tae fight him off somehow and pray that help comes in time!

She heard Saoirse let out a scream and then the brigand’s ragged breathing coming ever closer. “Get away from me, ye bastard!” Agnes shouted at him over her shoulder, her maternal instincts roused to fever pitch. “Or I’ll kill ye!”

“Ye can try, ye wee vixen, but ye’ll nae succeed!” he shouted, hurling himself after her with renewed energy. Despite Agnes best efforts, it was only a matter of seconds before he came up behind her. She felt a large hand suddenly grip her wrist and, with savage force, twist it. She shrieked in agony, and the dirk fell unseen from her hand.

She could feel Roisin beneath her cloak, hanging on for dear life, her little body trembling violently. All Agnes’ instincts told her to disentangle herself from Roisin’s grasp and tell the child to run and hide, but there was no time. In a flash, she found herself pinned against a large tree trunk, with the brigand looming over her menacingly, filling her purview. Certain she was about to meet her maker, terrified for her daughter, in a last-ditch appeal for help, Agnes let out a loud, desperate scream.

What happened next was a confusing blur. One moment the brigand was there, snarling in her face with fury. The next, she heard his skull crack as something hit him over the head. He watched uncomprehendingly as his eyes rolled back in his head, and he dropped like a stone to the ground at her feet.

Agnes stared in stupefaction as his place was immediately filled by another man. But this one was far bigger, taller, more powerfully built, his shoulders broad enough to block her view. Unsure if this was a new threat or someone come to save them, she dared not let down her guard. With her heart still pounding in her ears, Agnes tightened her hold on Roisin as the newcomer sheathed his sword then reached down and dragged the clearly deceased brigand up by the scruff of his neck and tossed him aside as if he weighed nothing.

Then, he dusted off his hands and looked down at her, sheathing his sword with practiced ease. “He’ll nae be troublin’ ye anymore, Miss. Are ye all right?” he asked, his deep, husky voice filled with concern.

The reassuring words should have calmed Agnes, who was shaking from head to foot, having believed only moments before that she was about to die. Instead, the sound of his voice sent a powerful tremor of recognition through her body that set her heart racing afresh. Nay, it cannae be him. ’Tis the shock. I’m hearin’ things, she told herself, her mind reeling.

“Miss, ’tis all right,” the man told her softly, clearly worried by her silence. “I promise, ye’re safe now. Did that bastard hurt ye?”

Agnes did not answer but put a hand to her head, still convinced she was experiencing some sort of delusion. I must have banged it without realizin’ it, she thought, staring up uncomprehendingly at the man’s shadowy features. ’Tis the only explanation fer it.

“Me lady! Are ye all right? Where’s the wee yin?” Saoirse! She’s unharmed, thank God! Agnes thought with relief as the maid hurried towards them. Unable to speak, she could only nod mutely. Pulling aside her cloak, she revealed a shivering, tearful Roisin tightly clasped to her side.

Saoirse clasped her hands to her cheeks and smiled. “Och, thank the Lord above!” Then, as if remembering something, she glanced up at their rescuer and added, “I mean tae say, thank the Lord fer sendin’ ye tae save us, Sir.”

“Think naethin’ of it. I’m only glad I arrived in time,” he replied. “Now, let’s get out of here and back tae the coach. There may be more of those brigands lurkin’ about here. ’Tis nae safe fer ye tae stay.”

As they followed him back through the trees to the road, Agnes became aware of the sounds of fighting growing louder as they approached. When she saw the carriage and the coachman slumped insensibly in his seat, both she and Saoirse gasped in shock.

“Is he…?” Saoirse asked, looking up at the man.

“Nay, just unconscious. He’s taken a nasty knock tae the head though,” their rescuer replied. However, Agnes attention had been snared by the sight of two men engaged in a fierce sword fight a short distance away. Reflexively, she covered Roisin’s eyes, not wanting the child to witness any bloodshed.

Suddenly one of the men broke away and ran off down the road, with the other charging after him in hot pursuit. “Braither!” Agnes cried out, instantly recognizing the pursuer as Duncan. And the man he was chasing was clearly another of the brigands. “Be careful!” she called after him fearfully, her heart in her mouth as she watched him slowly gaining on the brigand. Silently, she prayed he would triumph.

Then, as she knew it inevitably would, the familiar deep, husky voice came from her side, breaking into her distraction over her brother and setting her heart throbbing painfully.

“Agnes? Is it ye?”

She made herself turn and look at him, at his expression of utter shock, and her insides turned to water. Five years had scarred and hardened his sculpted features somewhat. His blond hair was longer, curling around his ears. There were a few more lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. But to her dismay, time only seemed to have increased his allure.

He was a fearsome warrior, marked by battle, frightening to look upon. Yet he was without a doubt the most beautiful, desirable man she had ever seen. The sight of him was like a knife twisting in her heart, for she loved him with all her heart but could never let him know it.

His presence threw her into fresh turmoil. Why is he here? Maither said he’d be away fightin’ with Duncan. Ach, this is a disaster! How the hell am I gonnae keep the truth from him now?

“Aye, Conrad,” she eventually replied, trying to keep her voice steady as a storm of emotions coursed through her. “’Tis me.”

 

---

–>

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Chapter 1

1714, Crypt of the Triad

“Edin, ye’ve been chosen fer a mission o’ great import.” The deep, commanding voice of one of the figures broke the silence, reverberating through the ancient crypt. It was a voice meant to be obeyed, each word weighted with authority.

The flickering torches lining the walls painted erratic shadows over the ancient carvings, their forms seeming to twist and writhe as if alive. Edin had stood in this room more times than she cared to count, but its oppressive atmosphere never lost its edge.

It was as though the air carried the scrutiny of countless unseen eyes. The damp chill clung to her skin, seeping into her bones as she faced the three cloaked figures known as The Favored. Their faces were obscured by hoods, the darkness within like a void.

The chamber itself felt as though it were closing in, its ancient stone walls bearing down on her. Even the faint echo of the figure’s voice heightened her sense of isolation. Yet Edin stood straight and unyielding, her outward composure betraying none of the turmoil within. Her mind, however, was a maelstrom. Whenever she was summoned to this crypt, she was tasked with work that danced the fine line between death and glory.

Weakness, she knew, was a luxury she could not afford. To falter, even for a moment, could mean losing everything she had spent her life fighting to achieve. She had to appear fearless, unshakeable as she steeled herself against the unrelenting weight of their gaze.

“A request has come from the Lennox family,” the cloaked figure continued, her voice measured as her fingers tapped the armrest of the high-backed chair.

Edin’s sharp gray eyes narrowed imperceptibly. The Lennox name always brought complications to its cases, reserved only for the most skilled members of The Triad.

“If I may ask,” she said, her voice calm and unwavering despite the flicker of unease she felt, “wasnae Elsie charged wi’ matters concerning the Lennox family?”

The figure on the right answered, her voice cutting through the crypt’s chill. “Yes. But Elsie has chosen a different path; she married and, in doing so, relinquished her place within The Triad.”

Marriage? Edin struggled to keep the incredulity from her expression. To throw away the opportunity to rise, to command respect, all for the fleeting comforts of matrimony? It would be a betrayal of self and purpose.

The mere thought of a quiet life, confined to the walls of a home, suffocated her. The monotony of tending to household affairs, of playing the dutiful wife—no matter how comfortable or privileged—would bore her to madness.

The Triad stood for something greater than human desires, it fought for justice and understanding in a world that thrived on shadows and deceit.

Edin couldn’t imagine looking back on her life and seeing it reduced to the mundane when she could achieve something greater. For as long as she could remember, Edin had envisioned herself as an integral part of the Triad. It was a calling. To belong to an organization so devoted to uncovering truths, solving the unsolvable, and protecting the integrity of their world was a mission.

Edin wasn’t built for tea parties or embroidery circles. She had always craved the thrill of a challenge and the rush of deciphering clues and solving cases. And this wasn’t just about ambition. It was about legacy. It was about knowing she had spent her life doing something that mattered.

The central figure leaned forward, her dark blue eyes catching the torchlight as they locked onto Edin’s. “The Lennoxes have requested our assistance in a matter of utmost delicacy. Their daughter, Davina, vanished some months ago. Evidence has surfaced suggesting she may yet live, hidden somewhere in the Highlands. Ye’ll be accompanying Finley Lennox, their eldest son — the heir,” the cloaked leader stated, her voice then dropping, low and deliberate. “The Lennoxes are nae ordinary patrons, Edin. Their influence is vast, their wealth critical tae our survival. Failure isnae an option.”

Another harsher voice came from the shadows. “Their loyalty is conditional. They demand excellence, and they’ll accept naethin’ less than success.”

Edin’s shoulders straightened instinctively, her mind already turning over the implications of the mission. Every word spoken was a reminder of the stakes. To succeed would be to solidify her position — a promotion, respect and the belonging she had been seeking for as long as she could remember.

To fail… well, she refused to consider failure. It was not an option. There was nowhere else to go and nothing else to do for her.

“This mission,” the leader intoned, “is as much a test o’ loyalty as it is a measure of skill. Prove yerself worthy, and the path ahead will open.”

“I am grateful fer the opportunity.” Edin’s hands clenched beneath her cloak, the motion hidden but no less resolute.

This is me chance.

For too long, she had been a simple tool to The Triad — even though experienced and a skilled herbologist. But this mission could change that. If she succeeded, she would no longer be merely useful; she would become an indispensable asset in an organization that many feared and most turned to for help.

One of the figures shifted. “Yer task will require access to the knowledge center. Ye’ve earned that privilege. See that ye make good use o’ it.”

Edin’s breath hitched for a moment, but she quickly masked it. The knowledge center was sacred ground, a repository of secrets and strategies. Few were granted entry, and fewer still could claim they had earned it. That they trusted her with such access was a testament to the gravity of the mission.

“I understand,” she replied, her tone steady and deliberate. “I’ll nae fail ye. The mission will be completed.”

As the meeting concluded, Edin turned and began her ascent from the crypt, her footsteps echoing in the silence. Her mind stirred with the details of the mission, the gravity of the task, and the rare opportunity she had been given — one she had been dreaming of since her youth. Now, at twenty-five, The Favored had bestowed upon her a responsibility of immense weight — and with it, a chance to prove she was more than just a servant of their will, but someone who truly belonged.

As she emerged into the cold, open air, she drew a deep breath. The weight of expectation still pressed down on her, but it was a weight she welcomed. For the first time in a long while, the path before her was clear. She would succeed—not just for the Lennox family, not for The Triad, but for herself.

For Edin, this mission was the ladder she had been waiting to climb. She’d worked too hard, given too much of herself, and sacrificed more than most. This mission, with all its complexities and dangers, was her chance to prove that she was not just worthy of a higher rank but essential to the organization’s very core. Otherwise, she would fade into oblivion.

***

The dim light of her quarters cast long, comforting shadows on the walls as Edin methodically sorted through her collection of vials. Each glass container held a carefully crafted mixture, labeled with her meticulous handwriting. The faint scent of crushed herbs and bitter compounds lingered in the air. Her hands moved with the efficiency of years spent perfecting her craft, ensuring every stopper was sealed tight, every label secured.

She reached for a vial containing a pale green liquid, her fingers brushing the smooth surface. “Antidote for nightshade poisoning,” she murmured under her breath, placing it gently in the satchel laid open on her cot. Next came a small bottle of silvery powder — a potent sedative that had proven invaluable in the past. She packed it alongside a collection of dried herbs wrapped in wax paper, her thoughts wandering as she worked.

She thought over what she had just experienced. Edin was well aware of the Lennox family’s deep ties to the Triad. What unsettled her was how much influence a single family could wield over an organization of such power. It felt wrong, a contradiction of everything the Triad was supposed to represent. Wealth and privilege shouldn’t dictate priorities, no matter how generous donations might be. Of course, her opinion didn’t matter, but when measured against the broader needs of society, catering to a wealthy family seemed like the least worthy of causes.

This made the mission feel different — heavier. The thought of accompanying Finley Lennox unsettled her. A future laird, accustomed to command, the kind of man who would see her as a tool. Her independence was one of her greatest strengths, and yet there she was, about to be saddled with a partner who could jeopardize her effectiveness. But there was no way around it.

Her fingers tightened briefly around the vial before she tucked it into her bag. She couldn’t let her irritation cloud her judgment. The mission didn’t leave much space for personal preferences — it was simply about results.

She reached for her small notebook, its pages filled with sketches of plants and their properties, formulas for tinctures, and notes from previous assignments. Slipping it into an inner pocket, she drew a deep breath. The leather-bound book was one of the few things that she could truly call hers — she had written it page by page — and everything she knew was inside those pages.

As she resumed packing, the scene replayed in her mind. The Favored’s explanation of the mission echoed in her thoughts — Davina Lennox, stolen months ago. The thought struck a nerve and she couldn’t stop thinking about the irony of it all. It was cruelly fitting. She, a girl who had once been taken, was now tasked with finding another lost girl.

Her hand hovered, trembling slightly, over a bundle of dried wolfsbane, questions she had worked tirelessly to suppress threatening to break the surface. The family she’d been stolen from remained a void in her mind, faceless and unreachable. All she’d known since then was the calculated efficiency of the Triad, who had rescued her, shaped her, and made her indispensable. They had given her a purpose — one she had clung to because it was all she had.

She knew all too well what it was like to be lost, to belong to no one. Despite her opinion on Davina’s family, finding her wasn’t simply a task; it was a chance to prevent another from suffering the same fate she herself had endured her entire life.

“Focus,” she muttered, her voice sharp. She shook off the thought and secured the wolfsbane alongside the other vials. This wasn’t the time to dwell on the past. Her mission was clear: find Davina Lennox and bring her home.

She picked up her dagger, its blade gleaming faintly in the dim light. Slipping it into its sheath at her hip, she considered the challenge ahead. The Highlands were a treacherous place, and the task of navigating them with Finley Lennox was daunting. She would need to be at her sharpest, her most prepared.

Her thoughts turned briefly to Finley. She had seen him once before, from a distance, during one of the rare times she had been sent to deliver a message to the Lennox family. He had carried himself with an air of authority, his broad shoulders and commanding presence making him hard to ignore. He was a man used to control, and she suspected he would not take kindly to sharing it.

“He’ll need to learn,” she said under her breath. She wouldn’t tolerate unnecessary interference. Her satchel now packed, she fastened it tightly and slung it over her shoulder.

Edin stepped to the small mirror hanging on the wall. Her sharp gray eyes were distant and unreadable, even to her. The face staring back at her, framed by the black braid she had tied with precision earlier, bore no trace of fear, no flicker of doubt, but the stillness in her expression felt heavier today. She adjusted her cloak, the worn fabric rough against her fingers, pulling it tighter around her shoulders.

Her gaze flickered across the room; a bare cot, a battered wooden chest, and the single lantern casting its feeble glow on the cold stone walls. It was a sparse existence, one she had grown accustomed to, yet in its emptiness, it held a strange sense of security.

She lingered for a moment, letting the stillness settle in her chest, before drawing a deep, steadying breath. Stepping out meant leaving that comfort behind and walking into the unknown. But she had survived worse and she would survive this, too.

Her boots struck soft echoes on the stone floor as she moved through the labyrinthine corridors. The air was cool, carrying the faint, earthy scent of moss and damp stone that clung to the crypt-like depths of the Triad’s headquarters. She ran her fingers along the rough-hewn wall as she walked, grounding herself in its familiar texture.

By the time she arrived at the stables, the last light of the day was visible on the horizon, painting the sky in soft strokes of orange and pink. She paused for a moment, her gaze sweeping across the wide expanse before her, soaking in the quiet stillness of the morning.

Edin tightened the strap of her satchel and gave her horse a firm pat on its sleek neck. The creature’s breath clouded in the chill evening air. She swung into the saddle with practiced ease, the familiar creak of leather grounding her for what lay ahead.

The path ahead was narrow, hemmed in by towering pines whose branches seemed to stretch out like skeletal fingers, clawing at the low-hanging mist. Shadows danced and twisted in the dim light of the fading sun, creating an otherworldly atmosphere that matched her uneasy thoughts. Each hoofbeat struck the ground with a rhythmic finality, as if the earth itself marked her journey with solemn acknowledgment.

Her cloak whipped around her in the cool breeze. It was a small thing to focus on, but she welcomed the distraction. Anything to keep her from dwelling too long on the enormity of the mission she had just accepted. The Triad’s crypt and its weighty silence were now behind her, but the words of The Favored still echoed in her mind. She was sure she would succeed in her task, but it weighed on her. The Lennox family’s influence, the life of a missing girl, the approval of The Favored — it all coalesced into a single daunting weight. Yet she held her head high, her sharp eyes scanning the road ahead with a determination that brooked no weakness.

“This will change everything,” she murmured under her breath, her voice barely audible over the steady clatter of hooves. It was not the first time she’d told herself that, but tonight the words carried a sharper edge. For years, she had worked in the shadows, completing assignments with precision and efficiency, always hoping that each success would finally earn her the respect and belonging she craved. This mission, however, felt different, more personal.

The terrain grew rougher as the path climbed into the hills. Stones and roots jutted out from the earth, forcing her horse to pick its way carefully. She leaned forward slightly, one hand on the reins, the other resting instinctively near the satchel at her side, the vials clinking softly with each movement. Ahead, the mist thickened, obscuring the horizon and giving the world an eerie, dreamlike quality. The faint scent of damp earth and pine filled her senses, grounding her once more in the present. Whatever lay beyond the next rise, she would face it head-on.

Once I succeed, me position in the Triad will be secure forever.

Chapter 2

The bustling market of Kilmaroy greeted Finley Lennox with a cacophony of merchants shouting over one another to advertise their wares. The scent of freshly-baked bread, cured meats, and the occasional waft of manure reminded him that he was far from the genteel halls of Lennox Castle.

The journey had been grueling — three days of unrelenting travel — but arriving earlier than planned gave him a strange, bittersweet sense of relief. He had only a few days to gain the upper hand before whoever the Triad had chosen to assist him arrived. The organization worked on its own cryptic timetable, answering to no one but their own mysterious hierarchy.

The Triad. His parents spoke of them with reverence, his grandmother with a quiet, almost fearful respect. Yet Finley had always harbored skepticism. What kind of entity demanded such blind devotion without offering even a glimpse of their true nature? They were an enigma — puppeteers who thrived on secrets and mystery.

Still, he needed them.

Desperation had led him to this moment, a feeling so consuming that it eclipsed his doubts and pride. Davina’s face, haunting and fragile, was still etched in his mind like a brand. He refused to let it grow blurry in his memory, despite all the time that had passed.

His failure to protect his sister weighed heavier than the chainmail beneath his cloak. He couldn’t help but think it was his fault, that if he had been more careful, things could have taken a different turn. But he was trying to fix it and he would, no matter the cost.

Despite his dislike for the Triad, it offered a sliver of hope, and he would grasp it. He had no other option. And if it could help him find Davina, then he would tolerate their veiled motives and cryptic methods — even with the shadow of distrust cloaking his thoughts.

He squared his jaw, brushing the thought aside. He didn’t have the luxury of doubting them at this point. Davina’s fate hung in the balance, and he had to trust them, otherwise he would fail again.

Pulling his horse to a halt near the market’s edge, he dismounted and tethered it to a post outside a small butcher’s shop. The mare nickered softly, and he patted her flank. “Rest easy, lass. We’ll nae be moving much until the morrow.”

Finley scanned the marketplace. Women bartered for vegetables, men haggled over tools, and children darted through the crowd clutching penny sweets. Amid the commotion, he spotted an older woman wrapping her shawl tighter against the chill breeze. Stepping forward, he addressed her politely.

“Good day, madam. Might ye tell me where I’d find the Three-Legged Mare?”

The woman squinted up at him, her weathered face softening slightly. “Down the lane, past the cobbler’s shop. Ye cannae miss it. Sign’s got a horse with three legs, poor thing.” She chuckled, revealing missing teeth.

Finley inclined his head. “Thank ye kindly.”

He followed her directions and soon found himself standing before the inn. The faded sign swinging overhead bore the promised image of a three-legged horse, its paint chipped and peeling. The building itself was sturdy but worn, its stone façade darkened by years of rain and smoke. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, he stepped inside.

The air was thick with the scent of spilled ale and the acrid tang of pipe smoke. A group of merchants, already deep into their cups, sat at a corner table, shouting over a game of cards. Finley avoided their rowdy gaze and made his way to the counter where the innkeeper, a stout man with a balding head, polished a mug with a threadbare cloth.

“Room fer the night?” Finley asked, keeping his voice low.

The innkeeper nodded. “Aye. Three silvers.”

Finley handed over the coins without hesitation.

“Room at the top of the stairs, second door on the right,” the man grunted, sliding a key across the counter.

Pocketing the key, Finley climbed the narrow staircase to his rented room, the creak of the old wooden steps showing the inn’s age. The air carried the faint scent of ale and roasting meat from the kitchen below, mingling with the musk of damp timber. Reaching the top, he pushed open the door to his room and stepped inside, his boots muffled by the worn rug that covered part of the uneven floor.

It was modest but would do — a sturdy bed with a coarse woolen blanket, a small table near the window, and a single chair that looked like it might splinter under his weight. A narrow shelf along one wall held an oil lamp and an empty bowl, the latter likely meant for washing. The window, though small, offered a decent view of the bustling market below, the sun casting light over the vibrant fabrics of the stalls.

Finley set his satchel on the table, tugging it open to check its contents. Inside were his essentials: a flint for starting fires, a spare shirt, a leather pouch of coins, and a roll of thin rope. His dagger lay at his hip, a comforting weight that he wasn’t keen to part with, no matter the circumstances. He briefly considered unpacking, but dismissed the thought. This wasn’t a place to linger—it was a waypoint, nothing more.

Leaning against the window frame, he scanned the market below. Vendors were shouting their wares, the hum of bartering rising above the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. Somewhere down there was everything he needed to sustain them on the road.

Shaking off his fatigue, he grabbed the pouch of coins, tucked it into his belt, and headed back downstairs. The innkeeper gave him a nod as he passed, though Finley barely acknowledged the gesture.

He wove through the crowd with purpose, scanning the stalls. First, he stopped at a vendor selling dried meats, selecting enough to last a week’s journey. The strips were salted and tough, but they’d keep. Next, he added a small pouch of hardtack, the dense biscuits a staple for anyone traveling light.

At another stall, he found a flask of whisky. The vendor, an older man with a crooked grin, assured him it was “the best in Kilmaroy.” Finley doubted the claim but handed over the coins anyway. A swig of whisky might do more for morale than anything else on the road.

As he passed a blacksmith’s forge, the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal caught his ear. He paused, eyeing the array of blades on display. One dagger, with an elegantly carved hilt and a keen edge, caught his attention. For a moment, he considered it, running a hand over the worn leather grip of his own blade. But sentiment won out; his current dagger had seen him through countless trials. He gave the smith a nod and moved on.

With his purchases bundled in his satchel, Finley made one last sweep of the market before turning back toward the inn. The evening was growing colder, a sharp breeze cutting through the streets. As he climbed the steps to his room, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was forgetting something.

By the time he returned to the inn, night had fallen, and the merchants’ drunken laughter had grown louder. Finley ascended the stairs, eager for the solitude of his room. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and closed it firmly behind him. He froze mid-step.

A figure stood by the window, partially hidden in the silvery light.

For a moment, his weary mind struggled to process what he was seeing. The shape was unmistakably a woman: slender yet poised, the faint outline of a cloak draping her shoulders. The moonlight caught the edge of her profile — a sharp line of a jaw, the faint curve of her cheek — and then she shifted slightly, blending into the room’s heavy shadows.

Finley’s muscles coiled instinctively. His hand flew to the dagger at his belt, the hilt cold and familiar beneath his fingers.

He didn’t stop to question.

With the silence of a predator, he crossed the room in two swift strides. Before the intruder could react, his arm shot out, clamping firmly around her throat. In the same fluid motion, he edged her neck to the side and pressed the blade against her skin, the sharp edge gleaming in the faint light.

“Who are ye?” His voice was low, his eyes locked on the intruder’s face.

The woman didn’t flinch. If she felt fear, she masked it well. Her face remained partially in the shadows, only her lips visible as they curved into a faint, maddening smirk.

“Ye’ve an odd way o’ greeting a guest,” she murmured, her voice a silky blend of calm and mockery. Her words had an almost musical quality. It was clear she’d anticipated his reaction, as if she had orchestrated the moment down to its finest detail.

She remained utterly unfazed, even as the dagger pressed against her throat. Instead, her gaze — steady and unwavering — flicked over him, taking in every detail of his stance, his grip, and the flash of barely contained panic in his eyes when he had first realized she was in his room. The subtle rise of her brow spoke volumes, as if she found his predictable response more entertaining than threatening.

Finley tightened his grip, leaning closer. The dagger pressed into her skin just enough to send a warning. “I’ll nae ask again,” he growled. “Who are ye, and what’s yer business in me room?”

Still the woman showed no sign of distress. Her calm unnerved him more than if she had fought back.

“Ye draw far too much attention tae yersel’, Finley Lennox,” she said softly, her tone as cold as the steel in his hand. “Taking the finest room in the inn, striding through the market like ye’ve nay enemies. Aye, it’s nay wonder ye’re so easy tae find.”

Finley stiffened. The casual way she spoke his name sent a jolt through him. Who was she, and how did she know him? His grip on her neck tightened, his knuckles whitening.

“Careful, me laird,” she purred, her lips curving into a sly grin as Finley felt the press of cold metal against his stomach and she shifted just enough for him to see the blade. “I’d suggest ye let me go,” she said, her voice maddeningly calm. “If I’d meant tae kill ye, ye’d already be dead.”

His jaw tightened, and he could feel her gaze on him, tracing every subtle shift in his expression. The frustration that simmered beneath the surface was barely contained, and he was certain she saw it — making him more tense, more rigid, with each passing second.

Her eyes flickered with something that bordered on amusement, and perhaps a touch of satisfaction, as if she were enjoying the effect she had on him, fully aware of the power she held over him.

His eyes flicked downward, locking onto the blade pressed against his stomach. Its hilt was adorned with a symbol that he had seen many times before: three interlocking circles, the unmistakable mark of the Triad.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Finley’s pulse thundered in his ears as his mind raced, the blade at his stomach an unspoken reminder of just how precarious his situation was.

Edin watched as Finley struggled to process what was happening and he could sense her satisfaction again. The laird, with all his strength and authority, rendered momentarily powerless in the face of her calm defiance.

“At least the Triad’s got a bit o’ spirit in them. Didnae think ye were fer theatrics,” Finley said with a sharp laugh, stepping back as he slid his dagger into its sheath. “Now then, will ye finally tell me who I’ve the pleasure o’ speakin’ tae?”

The woman adjusted her cloak, revealing striking features framed by dark hair. Her gray eyes gleamed in the dim light. “Edin,” she said simply. “I’ve been sent tae aid ye in finding yer sister.”

“Ye’re early,” he said, his voice laced with just a hint of suspicion. “I didnae expect ye fer another day.”

Edin turned to face him fully, her lips curving into her now familiar smirk. “Early? Ach, I’m here when I meant tae be,” she replied, her tone light and teasing, though a sharp glint in her eyes hinted at something more.

“Have ye booked a room, then? Or were ye plannin’ tae haunt me doorway all night?”

She chuckled, the sound low and unhurried. “I’ll nae need a room of me own. Ye’ve already one here, and I see nay reason we cannae share.”

Finley blinked, caught off guard by her brazen suggestion. “Share? D’ye think it wise fer a man and a woman tae stay in the same room, especially while ye’re so keen on lecturin’ me about discretion?”

Her gaze sharpened, her amusement giving way to practicality. “What’s unwise is drawin’ attention tae yerself, bookin’ fine rooms and leavin’ trails. Ye want tae find yer sister, aye? Then ye’ll need tae learn tae move without the whole of Kilmaroy takin’ note of yer comings and goings.”

He let out a scoff, crossing his arms over his chest. “And ye think ye’re the expert on such matters, dae ye? That sounds like insanity tae me.”

“I found ye, didnae I?” She took a step closer, her expression cool and measured as she lowered her voice. “Insanity keeps folk alive, Finley. Call it what ye will but mark me words — if ye cannae blend in, ye stand out, and that’ll make ye a target.”

Her words hung in the air, pressing against his pride. For a moment, he said nothing, his jaw working as he mulled over her warning. Finally, he nodded, though his tone remained firm. “Fine, then. But hear me well: I’ll nae be takin’ orders from ye. We’re equals in this. I’ve a duty tae me family, tae Davina, and nay one has more reason tae bring her back than I dae.”

Edin tilted her head, her gaze unwavering as she studied him. “Equals, then,” she said softly, though her smirk hinted at her amusement. “So long as ye ken that the moment ye compromise our safety, I’ll nae hesitate tae remind ye of what’s at stake.”

The tension in the room lingered as they looked at one another.

Finley studied her for a moment, noting the confidence in her stance and the sharp intelligence in her gaze. “Well, Edin, it seems we’re tae be partners. Tell me, where dae we begin?”

She inclined her head slightly. “The Triad has granted us access tae one of their knowledge centers. It’s a rare privilege, so we’ll start there.”

Finley nodded, his expression turning serious. “Then we’ve nay time tae waste. The sooner we begin, the sooner we find Davina.”

Edin’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Ye might want tae rest first. Ye look as though ye’ve been dragged through the mud.”

He let out a dry chuckle. “Three days of hard riding will tae that tae a man. We set out at first light.”

Edin nodded and moved toward the door. “I’ll be downstairs if ye need me. Try nae tae draw any more attention tae yerself.”

 

---

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Chapter 1

Me dearest Moira,

The news of me faither’s death must have reached ye and due tae the circumstances of this unfortunate event I am left without choice but tae ask fer yer hand, as promised. Everyone at Castle Fraser is awaiting yer arrival, meself above all.

Yers wholeheartedly,

Roderick

The letter had been opened and folded so many times that it bore faint creases, not too dissimilar from the lines of worry etched across Moira Wilson’s brow.

After hours of travel, Moira found herself unfolding the letter once again. The monotonous clatter of the horses’ hooves and the rhythmic sway of the carriage had done little to quiet her restless thoughts. She needed something—anything—to occupy her mind.

It might seem foolish to read the letter again and again, as it was the source of her unease. But reading calmed her, giving her scattered thoughts a direction and, most of all, the chance to try and figure out what to expect.

What would she find at Castle Fraser?

Of course, her mind pondered the worst.

As she traced the spidery letters on the crumpled page, Moira’s fingers lingered on the ink. She couldn’t help but notice how rushed Roderick’s writing was. Messy even. Was that a clue? A sign of Roderick’s state of mind?

And then, despite herself, another thought intruded: How will he look after all these years?

It was frivolous—perhaps the least important question she’d considered yet—but it lingered nonetheless.

Moira exhaled slowly, folding the letter with care and slipping it back into the equally rumpled envelope. She turned her gaze through the oval-shaped carriage window, her eyes settling on the vast, sun-dappled expanse of the Highlands. Rolling hills and wild greenery stretched endlessly before her, and although her eyes were looking out at the scenery, she wasn’t really seeing. She was lost in her thoughts, her mind busy conjuring visions of possible future events.

Moira was confident in her ability to analyze situations and at this point in her life, she was rarely wrong. But she could not fathom why she had been summoned. Or rather, she had an inkling but could hardly believe it. All she knew was that she had to go, for promises made long ago still held their importance.

The memory of when she had made her promise resurfaced, causing her to wince. She felt the bitter taste of regret and would have expelled it if she could have. Had she met Roderick now, she would never have made such a promise. She knew better.

But that was neither here nor there. She had learned there was little use torturing oneself with one’s past. She would have to enter Castle Fraser with a positive attitude, an open mind, and free from remorse for the regretful choices she had made.

The carriage jostled slightly as it moved along the uneven road, her body swaying with the motion, and Moira sat upright, her gaze fixed firmly ahead.

Not much longer now.

The carriage rumbled along a winding, muddy path, the wheels jolting as they neared their destination. Castle Fraser loomed ahead, large, turreted, and grey, its towering stone walls half-shrouded by the dense trees that crowded its edges.

When it finally came to a halt, Moira unlatched the door without waiting for assistance. She stepped out quickly, her movements both confident and efficient as her boots touched the frost-bitten earth.

She hesitated, taking in the towering grandeur of the castle before her.

Then, Moira noticed a finely dressed woman emerging from the castle’s tall doors. Her step was light, her long blonde hair flowing in the chill air, her eyes warm despite their intense blue hue.

“Welcome to Castle Fraser, Lady Wilson! I am Lady Fraser, though ye may call me Isobel,” she called out, her voice carrying on the breeze. “It’s a joy tae finally meet ye! Roderick’s spoken so many wonderful things about ye.”

Moira nodded, nervously adjusting the sides of her woolen skirt. She wasn’t sure how to deal with praise, especially given the situation she was in. Nevertheless, Lady Fraser continued, eager to make Moira feel at home.

“I’ll tell ye, lass, we were all so surprised when Roderick announced he was ready tae marry, and tae a woman he claimed tae love at that! But when we heard yer family name, well…” Lady Fraser smiled wider, clasping her hands together. “We couldnae think of a finer match. It’s like it was meant tae be.”

Moira smiled, her expression pleasant and composed, exuding the quiet ease she had mastered over years of navigating freshly spun lies. “Thank ye kindly,” she said softly.

“Come on inside. Everyone’s been waitin’ tae meet ye,” Lady Fraser said, gesturing toward the heavy wooden door. “We have prepared a grand welcome fer ye.”

Looping her arm gently through Moira’s, Lady Fraser led her through the castle’s main hall. Their footsteps echoed off the smooth stone floor as Moira took in the splendor of her surroundings. She gazed in awe at the high vaulted ceilings, while in contrast the glow of the hearth and the richly woven tapestries gave the room a welcoming warmth.

A cluster of smiling faces awaited them, gathering eagerly as Isobel began introductions. Moira managed polite nods, but her attention kept drifting to a figure at the far end of the room.

Roderick.

He was leaning against a pillar, his honey-colored eyes fixed intently on her, as though trying to unravel her thoughts. Moira stole a couple of glances at hi, as she continued to greet the others. She’d have stared longer if she could have.

Eventually, after they had all been introduced, with Moira offering polite smiles and a few kind words to each, Lady Fraser redirected her attention.

“Now lass,” Lady Fraser said, “I’m sure this is the one ye’ve been waitin’ tae greet. An’ what better than tae save the best till last?”

With her arm still looped through Moira’s, Lady Fraser guided her through the small crowd toward the pillar where Roderick stood.

Finally, Moira could truly look at him. Face to face, she took in the man she faintly remembered from years ago. He was bigger now, both his presence and stature, towering above her— so much so that Moira had to crane her neck to meet his gaze.

Despite his size, and the faint scar etched across his right brow, he exuded the type of authority that Moira immediately recognized as benevolent rather than oppressive. She remembered that about him—that he had seemed like a good man.

A faint smile tugged at Roderick’s lips, softening his sharp features as his eyes held hers. He gazed at Moira with an expression that was both welcoming and calm, his steadiness causing the crowd and the rest of the room to fade away.

“Ah, I’m glad ye could make it,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “It’s good tae see ye again.”

“And ye,” Moira replied softly. She wasn’t entirely sure how she was meant to behave, so she opted for subtlety—at her core, Moira was well versed in theatrics after a lifetime of training. She hesitated, wondering if she ought to add more, but Roderick quickly bridged the silence, turning toward his mother with an easy authority.

“Maither,” he began, his tone warm yet firm, “Lady Wilson is likely worn from the journey. She’s met everyone now, and I think it’s best she be shown tae her chambers. A bit of rest would dae her good before the feast tonight. Dinnae ye agree?”

“Aye, that’s a wise thought,” Lady Fraser agreed, her face softening with pride as she glanced between her son and the young woman by his side. There was a fragile hopefulness to her expression, Moira noticed, as though this moment of joy was one that Lady Fraser desperately needed.

Roderick turned to one of the maids standing nearby, his commanding tone calm but firm. “See tae it that Lady Wilson is taken tae her room and has all she needs afore the betrothal feast this evening.”

“Aye, me laird,” the old maid replied, dipping her head and stepping forward. “Follow me, miss. I’ll show ye tae yer chambers.”

Moira let out a silent sigh of relief, grateful to have been spared further conversation. While everyone had been kind enough, she still felt out of place, unsure of what she was doing there and wary of questions she might struggle to answer. Though part of her yearned to be back home, she followed the maid through the hall and up a grand, winding staircase.

She resisted the urge to glance back at Roderick even though she was certain his gaze lingered on her. Instead, she focused on keeping up with the maid, who was moving at an increasingly rapid pace. After a while, for the stairs felt as long as they were wide, they reached the third floor. The maid led Moira to the end of the corridor, where she opened the doors to a large bedroom adorned with rich burgundy tapestries and heavy oak furniture.

In the center of the room stood a grand four-poster bed with deep purple curtains, tied back neatly. A hearth on the far wall opposite the bed glowed with a crackling fire, giving the space a comforting warmth.

“This’ll be yer room, me lady,” the maid said with a warm smile.

Moira nodded. “Thank ye.”

“I’ll unpack yer bags,” the maid said, heading over to Moira’s cases, which had been carefully placed by the foot of the bed. Moira had almost forgotten about those.

“That’s quite alright,” she interjected quickly, stepping between the maid and her belongings. “Nay need tae worry about that.”

Confusion flickered across the maid’s face. “But it’s nay trouble at all,” she replied. “It’s me duty tae help ye get settled.”

“Ye could greatly ye help me by preparing a bath, if that is nae too much of a bother?” Moira suggested, her tone deliberately slow and calm. “What I really need is a nice, warm bath.”

The maid nodded, satisfied. Of course, it made sense that Lady Wilson would want to get washed and prepared for the feast. Lowering her head in a slight bow, she left the chambers, closing the heavy doors behind her.

Moira sat down at the edge of the bed, about to take her boots off, when a firm knock suddenly echoed through the room. She jumped slightly, then quickly rose to her feet. Her heart was beating fast, for there was only one person who could be behind that door when she opened it.

Roderick.

His commanding presence was a bit intimidating but also familiar. His soft honey eyes were trained on her with a serious intensity that caused her body to tighten. They were alone, for the first time in many years.

“It’s good tae see ye again, Moira” he said, his voice low and steady. He stepped inside without hesitation, his broad shoulders seeming to fill the room. “I cannae tell ye how long I’ve waited fer this moment.”

He closed the door behind him and Moira turned to face him, her expression guarded. “I wish it were under happier circumstances, Roderick,” she replied, her tone even. “But nay joyful occasion could have brought me here, I ken that much.”

Roderick didn’t respond, but he walked slowly across the room toward the fire, his boots sounding loudly across the floor. Despite the tension, Moira felt more comfortable alone in his presence than she had among the rest of the people downstairs.

“There was much delay tae me journey due tae some uprisings on the road,” she said. “I apologize fer the wait.”

“Nay apologies necessary,” Roderick said, “ye got here, that’s all that matters.”

Moira nodded, silent, taking in Roderick’s frame with her deep green eyes.

“Dae ye think the trouble will be reachin’ us here?” Moira asked. It took a lot to frighten her, but she was curious, and the uprisings truly had caused her much delay.

“It is unlikely,” Roderick assured her, his jaw tightening. “The Fraser lands are well-protected. Ye’ll be safe here.”

His tone left no room for doubt, and for a brief moment, Moira felt a flicker of reassurance that she hadn’t known she had needed. She had further questions, but she let them circle her mind, intrigued as to what Roderick had to say.

With his hands clasped behind his back, he continued to move around the room, surveying it as he walked. “We have much tae discuss,” he said.

“Indeed,” Moira replied, standing still. His presence was commanding, and she could tell it was natural for him to take charge. He was likely accustomed to leading, she thought, and that was probably when he felt most at ease. As for her, she’d always preferred to remain in the background, helping quietly from the shadows.

“The dinner tonight. It’ll be a formal affair, and I imagine it might be overwhelming at first,” Roderick said., “I’d like us tae approach it… strategically.”

Moira arched her brow, “Strategically?”

He nodded, turning back to her. “Everyone will be watching, and we need tae discuss how we’re going tae handle that.”

“What did ye have in mind?” She asked, stepping closer to him. She reminded herself that she was here for a purpose, not for a marriage. Her purpose, she told herself, was what mattered most. As someone used to keeping others at arm’s length, she wasn’t about to let her walls down just yet.

While something in her had warmed to Roderick already, there was always the possibility that she might be wrong—and the large-framed laird might indeed be wasting her time.

“We need tae make it clear that we are a strong match,” he said. “We must present a united front, Moira. Our engagement will draw attention, and there’ll be questions—some polite, some less so.” His eyes softened as he added, “I dinnae want ye tae feel overwhelmed. If there’s anything ye’d prefer I handle, tell me now.”

Moira appreciated his candor, though it caught her slightly off-guard. “I’ll be fine, Roderick. I’ve dealt with curious stares before.”

“Aye, I dinnae doubt that,” he said, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “But this is different. Ye’re stepping into me world now, and it can be… difficult tae navigate.”

“What exactly are ye worried they’ll ask?” she ventured.

Roderick paused, his gaze drifting momentarily to the fire before returning to her. “Questions about our past, about how we met. About why I chose to call ye here, now of all times. I’ve nae doubt some will dig fer reasons beyond what I’ve given them.”

Moira’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And what reasons have ye given them?”

He hesitated, and for a brief moment, Moira thought she saw a flicker of vulnerability in his expression. “That I need a partner by me side,” he admitted. “That it’s time I fulfill me obligations—and that ye were the one I chose tae create a family with.”

“I see,” Moira said softly, as she felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite place. “It all sounds like a good plan. I willnae speak too much as I believe it best tae stay quiet, but I am looking forward tae meeting everyone, both yer family and friends.”

Roderick nodded. “I, personally, am looking forward tae figuring out who killed me faither,” he said with cool detachment.

There it is, Moira thought to herself. Let someone talk, and they’ll tell ye whatever it is ye want to ken.

Chapter 2

1708, Dornoch

The narrow cul-de-sac was in a secluded and forgotten part of town, far from the nearest streetlamp.

A salty breeze swept through the air, stinging the sides of Roderick’s face, as he stood facing the woman concealed by her long black cloak. Her hood was pulled so low over her face, that Roderick could barely make out her features.

He narrowed his eyes, his thoughts racing. Who was this mysterious woman? Why had she been tied up in that cellar, left to her fate?

“Here,” she said in a tone so soft that it was barely louder than a whisper, extending her hand.

Roderick frowned as he stared at the small golden coin in her outstretched palm. The coin, although barely visible in the darkness of the night, shone with a slight gleam.

Carefully, he took it, his fingers momentarily brushing hers.

As he turned the coin over, inspecting it as thoroughly as he could, Roderick noticed strange markings on its surface: three circles arranged in a perfect triangle.

His eyes darted to hers, sharp with suspicion. “What is this?”

She glanced over her shoulder, scanning the shadows behind her as though expecting someone to emerge. Once satisfied that they were alone, she turned back to Roderick and continued.

“Ye rescued me, and now I owe ye a favor. The Triad,” she said, her voice extra hushed, “will be there whenever and wherever ye need it.”

Roderick hesitated. “I dinnae understand. The ‘Triad’?”

The woman sighed, trying not to reveal too much. “If ye encounter a problem that appears tae be impossible tae solve, the Triad can help ye. This is a secret, reveal it tae anyone and the favor is revoked.”

Roderick nodded slowly, still confused by the words coming from the mysterious lady he had just rescued.

“If ye need help, ye can send a letter here,” she slipped a small piece of parchment into his hand, her eyes narrowing, her tone steady but urgent. “Use this coin tae stamp it.”

Roderick opened his mouth to speak, but she glanced behind her again, ensuring they were still alone before continuing. “There should be absolutely nay information in yer letter that could expose us. If ye dae, it’ll be considered a breach of contract, and we willnae be able tae help ye.”

“I understand.”

“Nay one aside from yerself should have any information whatsoever about the mission ye have called us fer, nay information on why ye have reached out. If ye reach out tae us, it must be under those terms.”

“Are there any limitations?” Roderick asked quickly, conscious that their time was limited. “What if I ask fer too much?”

The air went still, and her face grew somber. “Just hope ye never have tae use the coin, fer yer own good.”

Roderick nodded, tucking the coin and parchment into his pocket.

“I hope,” she said, her voice thick with gravity “that I won’t ever have tae see ye again.

Without another word, Moira turned and vanished into the night, her cloak dissolving into the darkness like smoke.

Roderick stood still for a moment, his hand slipping into his pocket once more, and turning the cool coin between his fingers, he quietly reflected on the mysterious gift he’d just received. Roderick didn’t understand much, but he knew better than to breathe another word of what he’d been told.

***

All that Roderick recalled of Moira from the night they’d met was her hooded cloak, her face half hidden beneath the darkness of the night. But her eyes—he had noticed them even then—were just as piercing.

Now, as she stood before him, her posture straight, her chin slightly raised, Roderick tried to understand what she might be thinking. All those years ago, her presence had left him bewildered. But this time, her expression was cold, a mask of indifference that betrayed nothing.

Time, it seemed, had not softened her. If anything, it had sharpened her into something else. Something impenetrable.

He thought back to when he first wrote the letter to her. Ever since his father’s death he had been convinced that it wasn’t the mere accident that had been reported. He knew his father better than anyone, and he needed answers—not just for his own closure but for reasons he knew to be critical. Roderick had never been one to simply accept what he was told; there was something in him that always guided him toward the truth.

Moira’s lips twitched, but she didn’t speak. Instead, her silence stretched taut between them, thick as the tension in the room. It was Roderick who broke it again.

“When the doctor said it was possible me faither might have eaten something bad on the road,” he began, his tone hardening as he stepped even closer, “I kenned there was more tae the story.”

Her gaze didn’t waver, but the subtle tightening of her jaw betrayed her intrigue, Roderick noticed, perhaps more than Moira thought.

“That’s why,” he continued, his tone hardening, “I kenned that there was only one solution. I had tae send fer ye and collect the favor ye owed me. I needed the Triad’s help.”

Roderick noticed her body flinch, though her face remained the same.

“It is nae small thing that ye have done,” Moira said, inclining her head ever so slightly. Her words came out as coldly as her expression.

“I’m aware,” Roderick replied curtly, turning away from Moira and toward the fireplace. “But me faither’s death is nae small thing either.”

He rested one hand on the stone mantle, staring into the flickering flames. There was something distracting about Moira—be it her mysterious manner or her graceful demeanor. He decided that it was best for him to focus on the matter at hand.

“Since we last met,” he began, his voice steady, “I’ve done some research about yer… Triad.”

“And what have ye found?” She asked, her voice steady, betraying no sign of concern.

“It took time,” he replied. “Ye didnae exactly leave me with much tae go on. But eventually, in these five years since we met, I managed tae piece it together. The Triad—a secretive organization of investigators. Mystical, some call them. They’re hardly kent, even among the upper class. And they only take cases that interest them. Unless…” he paused

“Unless what?” replied Moira.

“Unless there is a favor involved,” he replied.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lips tighten into a thin line, but she remained silent.

“I understand the need fer secrecy, and I understand the weight of what I’ve done by calling ye here, but we both remember the night ye gave me the Triad’s coin, and why ye did it.”

“Aye,” Moira said, her composure faltering, if only slightly, for just a moment. A brief crack in her mask, her apparent stoicism betrayed by a tiny expression of frustration, alongside, Roderick noticed, a subtle hint of regret.

He had anticipated that bringing up that night might alter her composure, for it seemed as though she had been trying to pretend it had never happened at all.

“At the time,’” Moira continued, “I was nay more than an apprentice. If I had kenned better… I would have never made such a promise. If we’d met today…”

Roderick’s jaw tightened. “But that’s nae the case,” he replied firmly. “Without me help that night, ye wouldnae have been alive long enough tae even progress tae the position ye hold now.”

“Nay,” Moira responded, her tone icy. “I appreciate what ye did fer me at Dornoch. But if ye think that I couldnae have found a way out on me own, then ye’ve seriously underestimated me.” Moira crossed her arms, the air growing thicker by the moment. “I could’ve escaped without ye.”

“Maybe,” Roderick allowed, his voice cool. “But ye made me a very important promise. I’m redeeming it. Or are ye telling me the Triad doesnae honor its debts?”

“Careful, Roderick,” Moira warned. “I dinnae take kindly tae threats.”

“I dinnae mean tae threaten,” he said. “But ye made a promise that I ken ye have tae uphold. Ye have tae find out who murdered me faither.”

The words hung heavily in the air, a weight pressing down on the space between them. For a moment, neither of them moved, the flickering firelight casting long shadows across the room. Moira’s sharp eyes locked onto his, searching for some crack in his resolve, but his expression remained unwavering, his jaw set like stone.

“Murdered?” Moira finally cut through the silence, her expression filled with doubt. “But there’s nay reason tae believe that. Isnae it a wee bit far-fetched given the circumstances?”

Roderick edged closer to Moira, a faint edge of frustration creeping into his voice. “Aye, maybe, but I kenned me faither well. He was strong, hale. He was cautious in ways that others werenae. Yet somehow, after one hunting trip—one he’d made a hundred times before—he falls ill and dies? Doesnae that seem far-fetched?”

Moira didn’t speak, considering his words.

“Everyone thinks he died of natural causes, but I ken that’s nae the truth. I will find out who did it and bring that person tae justice.”

Roderick typically had rather a calm, collected, and gentle nature, whilst also being a natural leader. However, since his father’s death, he had become almost completely consumed by thoughts of vengeance. So much so that he found it difficult to control his frustrations.

“Roderick,” she began, her voice softening, “Ye cannae be sure. Just because ye dinnae want tae believe that yer faither’s death may have been nothing more than a careless mistake on the road, doesnae mean that it’s nae possible it’s true. I understand yer hurt, but, honestly, this may lead tae nothing more than a wild goose chase.”

Roderick took another step forward, closing the distance between them. Somehow, the room became smaller, the air heavier—and his eyes searched hers, hoping to connect to the part of her that might understand.

“This isnae just about what I want tae believe,” he said, his voice dropping even lower, somehow becoming more intimate. “I didnae just ask ye here on a hunch. Trust me, Moira, I ken.”

Roderick hadn’t known what to expect when he had asked Moira to go there, and part of him had thought she wouldn’t come. But he’d assumed that she would have been used to situations like his, so he couldn’t make sense of why she was so reluctant to help.

For a moment, Moira looked away from Roderick, off to the side of the room, seemingly trying to collect herself for reasons that he couldn’t understand. Then she visibly calmed and changed her demeanor. She straightened and looked back at him confidently. “Tell me everything ye ken, then. Every piece of information ye have about his death.”

Roderick’s jaw loosened, the tension was still palpable, but somehow he had gotten through to her. He knew that despite her cold approach, she’d be willing to help. After all, she had promised she would, and he sensed that she was a woman of her word.

“Me faither returned from a camping trip two days before he fell ill,” Roderick began. “The healer claimed that it’s possible fer a sickness tae take a long time tae settle in the body, but I dinnae trust his opinion at all.”

“And why nae?” Moira asked, arching a brow.

“Because he once nearly bled me dry after a skirmish,” Roderick replied sharply, spinning on his heel. “I was lucky tae survive. His competence is… questionable, tae say the least.”

“I see,” Moira continued. “An’ did yer faither go on this trip alone?”

“He always took councilmen with him when he went hunting. And they all returned in perfect health. Even though they had shared food and water, nae one of them fell ill besides me faither.”

Roderick noticed a glimmer of intrigue flicker across Moira’s face. He’d sparked her interest, and he watched as she appeared to be analyzing, lost in thought. She parted her lips as though she was about to speak but remained silent.

Roderick continued. “Right after returning from the trip, he spent some time in deep discussions with his Council. The issue was primarily that two of his councilmen, Lennox and MacDougall, were pressing him tae lease his lands.”

“So ye think they poisoned him?” Moira asked.

“I dinnae ken,” Roderick replied, running a hand through his hair. “But the timing is curious, is it nae?”

Moira sighed, consumed with her thoughts. “Curious daesnae mean proof, Roderick. Ye’ve asked me all this way fer what ye tell me isnae just a hunch, but it’s very likely that this may have been nay more than just a tragic accident. Just because we look fer meaning, doesnae mean that it’s there.”

Roderick’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he felt a rise of frustration. His anger slowly simmered, but he managed to keep calm. He knew that his hot-headed nature would work against him rather than for him when it came to Moira.

“Ye might be right, Moira. Maybe in the end, we’ll find out that there was nae more tae me faither’s death than a careless, tragic mistake. But ye are the one who gave me that coin, and while ye may suspect that I’m wastin’ yer time, until I have answers, yer time is mine tae waste.”

Moira inhaled sharply, her cheeks flushing with what Roderick assumed was irritation. But before she could respond, there was a soft knock at the door.

Both of them turned sharply as the maid entered, her eyes widening in shock at how close they had been standing together. They were almost touching, Roderick’s tall, bulky frame towering over hers.

“Me lady,” she stammered, averting her gaze to the floor. “I apologize, I didnae mean tae interrupt.”

“That’s quite alright,” Roderick quickly answered.

The maid bobbed a quick curtsy and backed out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

With the tension broken between them, Roderick relaxed a little, thrown off guard. Moira glanced to the corner of the room, her cheeks still flushed a light pink.

“I’ll leave ye tae it now,” Roderick said promptly, though his curiosity about Moira remained. “I look forward to seeing ye at the feast.”

With a polite bow Roderick exited the room.

Perhaps, he thought to himself, this investigation is going tae be a little more complex than I thought.

 

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