The Laird’s Fiery Obsession (Preview)
Chapter One
1667, MacAlpin Castle
“Thank God ye are here!” Aileen MacAlpin exclaimed, her hands already closing around her sister’s gloved ones before Rhona had fully descended from the carriage.
Rhona laughed softly, still breathless from the journey. “Ye sound as though ye feared I might vanish from one mile tae the next.”
“I feared many things,” Aileen replied, her tone composed in the way it always became when fear threatened to show itself. Her gaze dropped at once to Rhona’s belly, unmistakable beneath her cloak. “Ye should nae have come so far, nae in yer condition.”
“Condition?” Rhona teased, squeezing her sister’s hands back. “Ye talk as if I’m ill, nae with child. Dinnae fash, the bairn is stubborn… clearly a MacAlpin. Besides, I couldnae leave ye tae fret yerself intae a shadow.”
Aileen smiled, though it wavered. “Faither will be glad of that news, at least.”
Rhona’s expression softened. “Then take me tae him.”
They moved through the courtyard together.
“He worsened three nights ago,” Aileen said quietly as they climbed the stairs. “The fever spiked. He would nae stay abed.”
“Of course he would nae,” Rhona muttered. “Stubborn tae the end.”
That was all it took. Rhona said nothing more until they reached the chamber. The air inside was heavy with herbs and stale warmth. Alistair MacAlpin lay motionless against the pillows, his once-commanding presence reduced to shallow breaths and greyed skin. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of footsteps.
“Rhona?” he murmured in disbelief.
“I am here,” she said, already at his side. “And ye are going tae lie still, whether ye wish it or nae.”
Aileen hovered near the foot of the bed, watching as Rhona worked. Her sister’s hands were steady and practiced as she checked his pulse, pressing fingers to brow and throat.
“How long has the cough lasted?” Rhona asked with the practiced calm of a healer.
“Several days,” Aileen answered at once. She had not left his side save to fetch water or herbs. “The fever worsened last night.”
“And the markings?”
Aileen hesitated. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the blanket, as though it might bite her if she pulled it back. At last, she lifted the wool slowly and almost reverently. Ash-grey streaks marred Alistair’s skin, branching faintly across his chest and arms like the ghost of burned veins. The sight stole the breath from the room. Rhona stilled. The pause was brief but devastating.
“Nay,” Aileen said at once, shaking her head, as if denial might erase what lay before them. “It cannae be.”
Rhona’s jaw tightened. “How many others are ill?”
“Five in the lower glen,” Aileen said quietly. “More along the river.” Her gaze dropped to her father’s hand, which rested thin and mottled against the blanket. “He went tae them all.”
Rhona exhaled slowly, as though steadying herself against a storm only she could see. “Ye ken as well as I dae that this is Ash-Fever.”
The word seemed to drain the room of what little warmth remained. Aileen had suspected it. She had feared it, but so far, she had still been in possession of a tiny shred of hope. Now, Rhona had stolen that from her.
“There must be something,” Aileen said, stepping forward. “A tincture, a purge, something ye have nae yet tried—”
“Aileen.” Rhona’s voice cut her off, gentled by sorrow. “Ash-Fever has ravaged these lands before. Ye ken there is naething I can dae here.” Rhona glanced around the chamber, at the humble stores, the worn tools, the limits of what love alone could mend. “Nae with what we have. The only cure lies beyond our borders.”
Understanding crept in slowly, dread blooming with it. “Where?”
“Clan MacDougall.”
The name landed between them like a door slammed shut, echoing long after the sound should have faded.
“They will never give it,” Aileen said faintly.
“Nay,” Rhona agreed. “They guard that knowledge fiercely. And they have nae forgiven what was lost.”
Aileen looked back at the bed. She wanted to see the man who had lifted her onto his shoulders as a child so she could see over the crowd at the midsummer fair. But that man was gone. In his place was a shadow that had bled himself thin for his people and never once questioned what it would cost him.
“He caught it helping them,” she whispered tenderly, brushing a grey strand of hair from his clammy brow. “He would nae turn away.”
“I ken,” Rhona said softly. “That is why this is cruel.”
Silence stretched. Aileen could hear that silent voice deep down, urging her toward the truth she had already accepted. Then, she straightened, smoothing her hands against her skirts as she always did when emotion threatened to overtake her.
“Then I will go,” she said.
“Nay,” Rhona’s response was as fierce as it was immediate. “Absolutely nae.”
“There is nay one else,” Aileen replied. “Ye cannae travel again, nae like this.” Her gaze befell Rhona’s belly, round with both life and hope. Then, her eyes found their father. “And Faither…” Her voice faltered, but she mastered it. “Faither will nae survive the month without help.”
“The MacDougalls hate us,” Rhona reminded her sharply. “They always have. Ye ken what they will think if a MacAlpin rides intae their lands alone.”
“I ken,” Aileen nodded. Her sister’s fear was real. However, it was still smaller than Aileen’s resolve. “But that daesnae change what must be done.”
Rhona released her arm only to press a hand to her own belly, breathing carefully. “This is nae sacrifice… it is folly.”
Aileen softened at that, reaching out to steady her sister. “Ye came when we needed ye. Ye gave us truth when comfort would have been easier. I am grateful tae ye fer that.”
Rhona’s eyes shone. “Dinnae thank me as though ye are saying farewell.”
“I am nae,” Aileen said gently. “Only acknowledging what ye have already given.”
Aileen turned away from her sister, only to notice that their father had already fallen asleep. He was becoming so weak that even remaining awake for longer periods of time took a toll on him.
“When must ye return?” Aileen inquired of her sister.
“Ian will want me back within the next couple of days. The midwife is already waiting. I cannae linger.”
“I thought as much.” Aileen offered a small, reassuring smile. “Then I will ride swiftly.”
Rhona stared at her. “Ye mean tae leave at once.”
“Aye.”
“With nay escort?”
Aileen hesitated, then inclined her head. “Speed is safer than banners.”
Rhona’s breath hitched. “Ye have always been the quiet one,” she said softly. “I fear we mistook that fer fragility.”
Aileen squeezed her hand. “I only learned early how tae endure.”
Rhona pulled her into a careful embrace, holding her as tightly as she dared. “Come back tae us,” she whispered. “Dinnae let their hatred swallow ye.”
Aileen rested her cheek briefly against her sister’s shoulder. “I will come back,” she promised. “With the cure.”
When they parted, Rhona wiped at her eyes and straightened. “Then go,” she urged. “Before I lose the courage tae let ye.”
Aileen nodded once, and gently kissed her father’s forehead, lingering just enough to memorize the feel of his skin beneath her lips. Then, without another word, she walked out, toward the dangerous and unforgiving path ahead as if it had already been chosen long ago.
***
“Hold!”
The word carried across the hillside before Aileen ever saw the men who spoke it. She reined in sharply, her horse snorting beneath her as three riders emerged from the rise ahead, already positioned to block the narrow track. They wore no colors, yet the land itself seemed to claim them with their dark cloaks, unforgiving eyes and bows slung within easy reach.
MacDougall scouts.
Their gazes fixed on her cloak at once.
“Well,” one of them drawled, “if that isnae a MacAlpin riding bold as daylight.”
Another snorted. “Or foolish.”
Aileen slowed her horse but did not turn it. “I seek passage,” she addressed them steadily. “And audience with yer laird.”
“With those colors?” the foremost rider replied. “Ye announce yerself like a challenge.”
“They are all I have,” Aileen spoke boldly. “And I dinnae hide.”
“Ye should,” the second scout snarled. “MacAlpin blood is nae welcome here.”
“I come in peace.”
“That has never mattered between our clans.”
The third rider urged his horse forward until their knees nearly touched. “Turn back… now.”
Aileen looked beyond them, past the narrow track that wound deeper into hostile ground, toward the unseen castle she could feel pulling at her like a tide. Three days of riding had stripped her down to bone-deep exhaustion, yet her certainty remained undaunted.
“I cannae,” she exhaled.
The moment snapped tight.
The nearest scout reached for her bridle. “Then ye will be turned—”
Aileen acted momentarily, kicking hard and wrenching the reins. Her horse lunged forward, her shoulder clipping the scout as she burst through the narrow space between them.
“After her!” One of them shouted. She didn’t turn around to find out which one.
Hooves thundered instantly behind her. She drove her mount downhill, feeling the branches clawing at her sleeves. The blue of her cloak was flashing like a banner she could no longer shed. Arrows sang past her, one close enough to tear wool from her hem. She ducked. Her breath burned in her throat as the scouts gained ground.
“Stop!” the same scout shouted again. “Ye will nae reach the castle alive!”
She did not slow. The land rose and broke beneath her, stone and root conspiring against her flight. An arrow struck the ground ahead, splintering rock and forcing her to swerve. Her horse stumbled, screamed… and fell.
Aileen was thrown clear, hitting the earth hard enough to drive the breath from her lungs. For a moment the world narrowed to pain and ringing silence. Then she heard it again, that thunder of hooves and the sharp shouts of men closing fast. She forced herself upright, feeling her knee screaming in protest, and ran.
Another arrow flew. It was evidently not meant to hit her, but it was close enough that her fallen horse shrieked. The scouts were not trying to kill her now. They were driving her, herding her like frightened game toward the open slope ahead.
The castle loomed into view, its dark stone walls rising from the land like a judgment already passed.
“Stop!” someone shouted behind her. “Ye have naewhere left tae run!”
Her lungs burned. Her skirts tangled around her legs as she ran, tearing free of branches, stumbling but then catching herself with scraped palms slick with blood. The gates were closer now… agonizingly close. It only made her run even faster.
Another arrow struck stone beside her. She screamed, half in fury and half in fear, but she pushed on. Her heart was pounding so violently she thought it might tear free of her chest.
Then, the great doors filled her vision.
“Open!” she cried, slamming her fists against the wood. “Please, open!”
She pounded again, and again, each blow sending pain shooting up her arms. Her voice cracked as she shouted for mercy, for aid, for anyone who would hear her over the thunder of pursuit.
Rough hands seized her from behind. Aileen fought with everything she had. She was kicking, twisting and striking blindly wherever she could, but exhaustion robbed her of her strength. One man wrenched her arms behind her back while another forced her to her knees. Rope bit into her wrists as they bound her hands tight.
“Enough,” one of them growled. “Ye’ve made enough trouble.”
The words burned hotter than the rope biting into her wrists. Shame flared at how easily they had brought her down, how quickly strength and resolve had been stripped away and replaced with dirt and submission. She had not imagined herself kneeling like that, breathless and bound, with her defiance reduced to torn skirts and shaking limbs.
She dragged in a ragged breath, then bowed her head as her hair fell loose around her face, hiding her expression from their satisfaction. Her chest ached and her lungs burned. But beneath it all, was the thought of her father, his stubborn kindness and the way he had gone from door to door in the villages, refusing rest and refusing fear, because someone had to stay when others fled.
She would kneel a thousand times if it meant saving him.
Then, suddenly, the gate groaned. The sound cut through her like a blade. Heavy iron bolts slid free, one by one, echoing across the courtyard with the weight of final judgment. The great doors opened inward, just wide enough for firelight to spill across the stone and gild the edges of the men restraining her.
Everyone went still. The grip in her arms tightened.
Aileen lifted her head. She did not know what waited beyond those doors, whether it was mercy, fury, or something worse, but she knew with aching clarity that her flight was over.
And whatever came next, she would face it… for her father, if for nothing else.
Chapter Two
A man stepped through the main gate with such calm, it made it seem that the chaos beyond the walls did not dare follow him inside. His presence did not command attention so much as settle it. His storm-grey eyes took in the scene in a single sweep: the fallen horse in the distance, the tense scouts and the woman on her knees with her hands bound.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
He did not raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark brown hair worn long and loose, stirred faintly by the night air. Torchlight caught the hard planes of his face and the old scars that traced his forearms where his sleeves were pushed back. Aileen lifted her head, her heart stuttering at the weight of his attention. She had imagined many things, such as fury and contempt. She had also expected cruelty… anything but the measured calm that felt far more dangerous than anger.
Against all common sense, she had to admit that he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. She didn’t even need him to smile to be absolutely certain of that. The fact that he was the enemy somehow only made him even more titillating.
Focus, Aileeen.
“She is an intruder,” one of the soldiers said quickly. “A MacAlpin.”
The man’s jaw tightened at once.
“She crossed the border in their colors,” another added. “Refused tae turn back and fled when ordered. We chased her from the hills.”
Aileen forced herself to straighten despite the rope cutting into her wrists. “I didnae come in hostility,” she tried to explain. “I came diplomatically. I asked fer an audience.”
The word earned a scoff from one of the men, but the man’s gaze had already snapped back to her.
“A MacAlpin rides intae MacDougall lands uninvited,” he said, “and calls it diplomacy?”
“I am Aileen MacAlpin,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Daughter of Laird Alistair MacAlpin. And I came tae speak tae yer laird, nae tae his scouts.”
At the sound of the name, something sharp flashed across his features. It was anger as ancient as the air itself. The air seemed to tighten around him.
“MacAlpin,” he repeated, as though tasting something bitter.
A murmur rippled through the gathered men. Yet his gaze dropped again to the rope biting into her wrists, to the dirt streaking her skirts, because she had been forced to kneel a moment ago.
His expression darkened further as he addressed the men.
“So, ye chased her tae the gates,” he said slowly. “And shot arrows at her horse.”
“She wouldnae stop,” a scout said. “She—”
“Enough.” The word snapped like a lash.
The men fell silent. And that was when Aileen realized that she had been speaking to the Laird Brodie MacDougall himself.
He took a step closer, his presence filling the space between them. Aileen felt the heat of his anger now, not only at her name, but at the way she had been brought before him.
“She is me responsibility once she reaches these walls,” he told everyone. “And ye dragged her in like a wild animal.”
“Me laird—”
“Untie her.”
The command was quiet, but decisive. Aileen’s breath caught as the rope was cut away. Her hands fell to her lap, numb and shaking, but she did not look down. She kept her eyes on him, on the man who had corrected his own men not out of kindness, but because order mattered.
“Come,” he said.
The word, however, was not an invitation. He turned without waiting, his long strides carrying him back through the open doors. Aileen followed him despite the protest of her knee, as guards fell in behind them at a respectful distance.
Aileen felt the weight of every eye upon her as she crossed the threshold. Even the servants paused mid-step. Their whispers were trailing in her wake like smoke. She was acutely aware of her torn skirts, the dirt on her hands, the MacAlpin blue still draped over her shoulders like an accusation. She kept her chin lifted nonetheless, moving forward because stopping would have been worse.
The castle was vast, older than it first appeared from the outside. High stone arches stretched overhead, their carvings worn soft by centuries of hands and smoke. Banners hung from the walls in MacDougall colors, once rich, now faded at the edges. The floors bore deep grooves where generations of boots had passed, and here and there the stone was cracked, patched not with care but necessity.
It was grand, but somehow tired. Wealth had once lived here. Strength still did. But strain lay beneath it all, unmistakable to someone who had grown up watching decline wear quiet grooves into familiar halls.
When they reached his study, the guards halted, and the door closed behind her with a sound that echoed far too loudly in the stillness.
Laird MacDougall faced her again, with his arms crossed over his chest. Up close, he was even more imposing. And even more handsome. Aileen bit her lip to focus on anything else but that.
“Now, ye may tell me,” he started slowly, “what a MacAlpin is daeing on me land and why ye thought it wise tae come alone.”
Aileen did her best to will the tremor from her voice. “I came because I had nay other choice.”
He frowned. “That is nae an answer.”
“Me faither is dying,” she said simply. “Laird Alistair MacAlpin.”
His expression did not soften. Not that she expected it to.
“He caught Ash-Fever while helping our villagers,” she continued. “He wouldnae turn away from them. The sickness has spread, and there is nay cure in our lands.”
He didn’t say anything to that, so she continued. “Ye ken where the remedy can be found, and so dae I.”
He gritted his teeth silently.
“And ye expect it freely.”
“I expect naething,” she corrected him. “I ask.”
Laird MacDougall let out a short, incredulous laugh. “And ye ask as though I owe it tae ye.”
“I ask because lives depend on it.”
“And what,” he asked casually, “dae ye offer in return, tae me, yer faither’s enemy?”
The question landed with deliberate weight. She should have known. Now that she did, the only thing she could offer was a need for a need, in hopes that hers would be the less desperate one.
“What is it ye require?” she asked cautiously.
He moved to the table, resting his palms against the wood. “MacAlpin influence with the king, fer one. Beneficial alliances, protection in council chambers where me name carries little favor.” His eyes flicked back to her. “Coin… fighters… resources.”
She felt as if he were discussing the weather.
Aileen frowned. “I thought ye were wealthy.”
“We are… threatened,” he corrected. “Clan Campbell tightens its grip each year. They took MacIver without drawing a blade. Lamont followed soon after.” His voice darkened. “They absorb, they starve, and they call it law.”
She felt a chill. “And ye believe that ye are next.”
“I ken we are,” he confirmed. “I believe alliances shift power and I will nae see me clan swallowed whole.”
“I can offer ye a political alliance,” Aileen said quickly. “MacAlpin support in both Council and in arms. I’m sure that me faither would—”
The sound of his laughter cut her off. It was sharper this time.
“Ye are offering me a political alliance?” He shook his head as he spoke. “Those are easily broken with ink and excuses. I would never trust a MacAlpin oath.”
The words struck harder than she expected. “Ye dinnae ken me.”
“I ken yer name,” he said flatly. “And I ken yer clan’s history.”
Aileen’s brows knit. “What history?”
His gaze hardened into something old. Yet it failed to make him any less handsome.
“Enough tae ken that MacAlpin promises are nae worth the breath used tae speak them.”
She stared at him, feeling unsettled. “I dinnae understand.”
“Nay,” he said quietly. “Ye would nae.”
He straightened, allowing the weight of his authority to settle like stone between them, as if she needed a reminder where she was.
“Ye ask me tae weaken me position fer a rival clan that has already proven it will choose its own survival over mercy.”
Aileen’s chest tightened, and now, there was unease blooming where certainty had once nestled. “If ye ken anything of me at all,” she said carefully, “then ye ken I wouldnae be here if there were any other way.”
He was silent for a moment, his storm-grey eyes traversing every inch of her face, as if he were still trying to decide whether that conversation was worth his time.
Aileen held his gaze, though her pulse thudded painfully in her ears. She had known that moment would come, the turning of the blade and the price named aloud.
“Ye ken me name,” she told him carefully. “And ye said ye ken me name’s past. Then tell me, is there anything I can offer ye in exchange fer the cure?”
He did not answer at once. His eyes were on her at every single moment, refusing to look away. Time stretched thin until he finally spoke.
“Aye,” he nodded. “I ken yer name. And that is precisely why there is only one way fer us both tae get what we want.”
Hope stirred despite her caution. “What way?”
“Marriage,” he said plainly.
The word struck her like a physical blow. For a heartbeat, she could not breathe. It was as though hands had closed around her throat, squeezing the air from her lungs while the room tilted beneath her feet.
Marriage. Here. Like this. As though me life were a coin passed across a table.
She found her voice at last, brittle with disbelief. “Have ye utterly lost yer mind?”
His grin widened, utterly unrepentant. “I am nae the one who rode alone intae enemy territory and made demands.”
“That is nae the same,” she shot back. “Ye speak of binding me life tae yers as though it were a treaty clause.”
“It is a treaty,” he reminded her. “One that cannae be dissolved with ink or excuses. Me name becomes yers. Yer king’s favor follows ye. MacAlpin influence becomes MacDougall protection.”
Her hands clenched at her sides. “Ye would cage us both tae secure yer borders?”
“I would bind our clans,” he corrected. “And ensure that neither of us can betray the other without cost.”
Her heart pounded with fury. “Ye would truly force me intae this?”
That was the moment when she no longer saw the merciful man who had treated her with respect in front of his guards, but rather a dangerous laird who would do anything to protect those under his care.
“Force?” he repeated softly. “Nay. I offer ye a choice.”
“A choice between me faither’s life and me freedom,” she said bitterly.
“A choice between reality and sentiment,” he countered. “Ye came here kenning there would be a price. Dinnae pretend surprise when it is one ye dinnae wish tae pay.”
Aileen swallowed, her throat aching. She had crossed mountains and hatred and fear, but she had not imagined that… marriage to a man who despised her name, to a clan that hated her blood.
Anger and resolve warred fiercely within her. “I willnae trade meself like coin,” she snarled.
He didn’t seem the least bit concerned as he replied. “Then ye may leave. I promise ye safe passage back home.”
Aileen understood with sickening clarity that she had reached the most dangerous part of her journey, which was not the chase, nor the arrows, nor the gates. It was that moment where love and sacrifice were being weighed against the last thing she had ever believed truly hers.
Her vision blurred not from weakness, she told herself fiercely, but from the sudden, violent collision of hope and despair. Anger surged first, followed by the knowledge that she was powerless.
But she would not cry, not in front of him.
Her throat burned as she swallowed, her nails biting into her palms as she forced the tears back through sheer will. She had learned that skill early, how to make herself small and how to bear unbearable things without asking to be seen.
But at that moment, it hurt differently. Its cost was her father’s life, weighed against her own.
“There will be nay marriage between us,” Aileen snarled angrily. “Nae in this lifetime.”
His eyes never left hers. “Then, I wish ye strength. Fer hope alone has never saved any of us.”
“I will find another way,” she said, though she did not know how. The words were thin, but they were all she had. “There is always another way.”
He did not laugh this time. She turned before he could reply, before the tears she was fighting so hard to restrain betrayed her. Each step toward the door felt heavier than the last. Her hand closed around the latch.
Her hand closed around the latch.
“Aileen MacAlpin,” he called out her name.
She paused but did not turn.
“Hope,” he added thoughtfully, “is a dangerous thing tae wager against reality.”
Her shoulders stiffened.
“Then it is well,” she told him without turning to face him, “that hope has carried me farther than fear ever could.”
Fury carried her forward like wind at her back as she slammed his door shut. If this was how he ruled, through fear and leverage, then she would not kneel to it.
There would be another way to save her father. And if there was not, she would make one.
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