Three Weeks Earlier

“Absolutely nae.”

The words crashed through the great hall of Castle MacAlpin like thunder, making Isla’s teacup rattle against its saucer. She set it down with deliberate care, her amber eyes never leaving her father’s crinkled face as he stood with his back to her, staring out at the grey morning mist that clung to their lands like Highland ghosts.

“Faither—”

“I said nay, Isla.” Laird Alistair MacAlpin turned from the window, his silver-streaked hair catching the pale light as his blue eyes—so like her sister Isolde’s—fixed on her with the kind of paternal authority that had kept their clan together through years of political upheaval. “The Highland Summit at Dun Brae is nay place fer a young woman.”

Isla rose from her chair with the fluid grace that had always marked her as different from her more conventional sisters, her auburn hair catching fire in the morning light. Dressed simply in deep green wool, there was something about her that commanded attention—the way she held herself, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the fierce intelligence that blazed in her eyes.

“I’m three and twenty, Faither. Hardly a child who needs protection from Highland politics.”

“Ye’re me youngest daughter,” Alistair replied, his voice carrying the weight of a man who’d watched centuries of MacAlpin blood defend these lands. “And these are dangerous times. The other clans—”

“Are threatened by our success,” Isla interrupted, moving toward him. “Which is exactly why ye need someone there who understands what we’ve accomplished and can defend it properly.”

“I can defend our clan’s honor meself.”

“Why alone?” The challenge in her voice made Alistair’s jaw tighten. “When did ye last face down a room full of Highland lairds who think the MacAlpins have grown too powerful fer our own good?”

She stepped closer, her hands clasped behind her back in a gesture that made her look deceptively demure. But Alistair knew his daughter too well to be fooled by appearances.

“I’ve been managing our household accounts fer two years,” she continued, her voice gaining strength with each word. “I ken exactly how much wealth Isolde’s and Rhona’s marriages have brought us. I understand the political implications better than anyone.”

“Understanding politics and surviving them are two different things entirely.”

“Are they?” Isla’s laugh held no humor. “Because it seems tae me that surviving is exactly what our family has been daeing. What I’ve been helping us dae while me sisters found love and happiness in their marriages.”

The reminder of her unmarried state hung between them like smoke from a funeral pyre. At three and twenty, Isla MacAlpin could be considered well past the age when most Highland daughters were wed and settled. But every suitor who’d come calling had fled after encountering her razor-sharp wit and complete disinterest in being any man’s ornamental wife.

“This isnnae about marriage prospects,” Alistair said carefully, though they both knew it was partially about exactly that.

“Good. Because I have nay interest in being paraded before potential husbands like a prize cow at market.” Isla moved to the window, her gaze taking in the rolling hills that had been MacAlpin land for longer than memory. “I want tae go because I can be useful. Because someone needs tae watch our interests while ye’re focused on the formal proceedings.”

“Ye mean spy.”

“I mean listen.” She turned back to face him, and Alistair was struck by how much she resembled her late mother in that moment—the same fierce determination, the same refusal to be dismissed or ignored. “Dae ye truly believe every conversation that matters will happen in the formal sessions? Or will the real decisions be made in quiet corners and private chambers where women are assumed tae be decorative rather than dangerous?”

The logic was sound, and they both knew it. Highland politics had always been conducted in shadows as much as sunlight, and a clever woman who knew how to listen could learn things that escaped the notice of men focused on formal proceedings.

“The other lairds willnae appreciate a woman involving herself in their business.”

“The other lairds can go tae hell,” Isla replied with cheerful venom. “I’m nae asking fer their appreciation. I’m asking fer the chance tae protect what we’ve built.”

Alistair studied his youngest daughter’s face, noting the stubborn set of her jaw, the way her hands had clenched into fists at her sides. She’d inherited the MacAlpin pride in full measure, along with a keen intelligence that made her dangerous in ways most people never recognized.

“If I agreed—and I’m nae saying I am—there would be conditions.”

“Such as?”

“Ye’d stay close tae me at all times. Nae wandering off on yer own tae investigate whatever catches yer curiosity.”

Isla’s eyes lit up with triumph, though she tried to hide it behind a mask of solemn agreement. “Of course, Faither.”

“And ye’d dress appropriately. Nae of this nonsense about wearing men’s clothing or disguising yerself as a servant.”

“I would never—” She stopped at his raised eyebrow. “I’ll dress as befits a Highland lady.”

“And ye’ll remember that ye’re there as me daughter, nae as some sort of clan diplomat with independent authority.”

“Naturally.”

Alistair sighed, recognizing defeat when it stared him in the face with amber eyes and his late wife’s stubborn smile. “Against me better judgment, then. But Isla—” His voice carried a warning that made her straighten. “These are dangerous times. The other clans fear our success, and fear makes men dae desperate things. If I tell ye tae stay back, ye stay back. If I tell ye tae leave, ye leave. Nay arguments, nay debates, nay stubbornness. Understood?”

“Understood,” she agreed, though her fingers were already itching to explore every shadowed corner and hidden passage Dun Brae had to offer.

***

Two days later, Isla stood in her chamber surveying the organized chaos of packing for a journey that could change everything. Gowns lay across her bed in careful arrangement—the blue silk that brought out her eyes, the deep green wool that matched her father’s colors, the silver-embroidered formal dress that had been her mother’s and made her look like Highland royalty.

“Me lady,” said Maisey, her maid, appearing in the doorway with an armful of traveling cloaks. “Yer faither says we leave at first light tomorrow.”

“Aye.” Isla held up two different gowns, trying to decide which would make the better first impression on Highland lairds who already viewed her family with suspicion. “What dae ye think, Maisey? The blue silk or the green wool fer the opening ceremonies?”

“The blue, me lady. It makes yer eyes shine, and ye’ll want every advantage when facing down a hall full of suspicious Highland lairds.”

The observation was shrewd—Maisey had served the MacAlpin women for twenty years and understood the subtle warfare of court appearances better than most generals understood battlefield strategy.

“The blue it is, then.” Isla set the gown aside and moved to her writing desk, where maps of Dun Brae lay spread across the polished wood. “Tell me, what dae ye ken about the castle’s layout?”

“Me lady?”

“Dun Brae. Have ye ever been there? Heard stories about its construction, its hidden passages, its… unconventional features?”

Maisey’s eyes sharpened with understanding. “Planning tae dae some exploring, are we?”

“Planning tae be prepared,” Isla corrected, though her smile was pure mischief. “Knowledge is power, and I intend tae be very powerful indeed.”

“The castle’s old,” Maisey said thoughtfully, settling into the chair across from the desk. “Built during the time of Robert the Bruce, with all the defensive features ye’d expect. But I’ve heard tell it has more passages and hidden doors than most—built fer a time when Highland politics were even more dangerous than they are now.”

“Interesting.” Isla’s finger traced the castle’s outline on the map. “And the great hall? The private chambers? The areas where important conversations might take place away from prying eyes?”

“The great hall’s traditional—high table, long benches, galleries fer observers. But the real power in any Highland castle lies in the private chambers and council rooms. Places where lairds can speak freely without worrying about every word being repeated.”

“Places a clever lass might overhear things she wasnae meant tae ken?”

Maisey’s smile was answer enough.

They spent the next hour poring over the maps Maisey drew from her memory. She’d escorted MacAlpin lairds to the Summit on more than one occasion, and as a servant, she needed to know shortcuts to move around the castle quickly and quietly.

Isla memorized every corridor and chamber, every potential hiding place and vantage point. By the time the afternoon sun slanted through her windows, she could have navigated Dun Brae blindfolded.

“Me lady,” Maisey said eventually, “ye dae realize yer faither will have yer hide if he discovers ye’ve been planning tae spy on the proceedings?”

“Only if he discovers it,” Isla replied with the confidence of a woman who’d been successfully managing Highland men her entire life. “And I have nay intention of being caught.”

A sharp knock at her chamber door interrupted their planning. “Come,” Isla called, hastily folding the maps and sliding them beneath other papers.

Her father entered, his weathered face holding the kind of worry that had become his constant companion since before their clan’s fortunes had begun to rise, when they had been struggling to get through the winters. “Isla, we need tae talk.”

“About what?” Though she suspected she already knew.

“About what ye might face at Dun Brae.” Alistair settled into the chair Maisey had vacated after bobbing a curtsy and disappearing into the corridor. “Ye ken that the other clans arenae just suspicious of our success—they’re actively resentful. They see Isolde’s marriage tae Laird MacCraith and Rhona’s tae Laird Wallace as calculated political maneuvering.”

“Because they are in a way?” Isla raised an eyebrow. “Both marriages strengthened our alliances considerably.”

“Aye, but they were also love matches. Yer sisters found happiness with men who happened tae bring political advantages.” Alistair’s expression softened slightly. “The other lairds cannae accept that we might have been fortunate enough tae find both love and advantage in the same arrangements.”

“So they assume ye’re a scheming manipulator who uses his daughters as political pawns.”

“Exactly. Which means we’ll be walking intae a gathering of men who already view our family with hostility.” His blue eyes searched her face. “Are ye certain ye want tae expose yerself tae that kind of scrutiny?”

Isla’s smile was sharp as Highland steel. “Faither, I’ve been dealing with hostile Highland men me entire life. At least at Dun Brae, they’ll be forced tae be polite about it.”

“Will they? Because I’m nae so certain. Some of these lairds have daughters of their own—daughters who lost marriage prospects when yer sisters found such advantageous matches. They may see ye as a chance fer revenge.”

The warning struck her like ice water, but Isla’s spine straightened with the stubborn pride that had defined her since childhood. “Let them try. I didnae survive three and twenty years of Highland politics by wilting under pressure.”

“Nay,” Alistair agreed, pride creeping into his voice despite his concerns. “Ye’re definitely nae some helpless flower. But pride can be a dangerous thing when it’s wounded. And we’ve wounded quite a few prideful men with our recent success.”

“Then we’ll just have tae make sure we’re prepared fer whatever they throw at us.” Isla leaned forward. Her eyes burned bright with determination. “Ye’ll be trapped in formal ceremonies, Faither, playing by their rules and their timetables. But I can move through spaces they think are harmless. I can listen at doorways, observe alliances forming in quiet corners and catch the conversations that happen when men think nay one important is watching.”

“And if ye’re wrong? If they see through whatever disguise or deception ye’re planning? If they realize ye’re deliberately gathering information?”

“Then I’ll face the consequences,” she said simply. “But I willnae sit safely at home while our family’s future is decided by men who resent our success.”

For a heartbeat, Alistair saw not his youngest daughter but his beloved wife again—the same amber fire in her eyes, the same lift of chin that meant arguments were futile. Too many years in the grave, and still her spirit lived on in this fierce lass who refused to be sheltered from the harsh realities of Highland politics.

“Very well,” he said finally, falling for his daughter’s witty schemes once again. “But Isla—promise me ye’ll be careful. Promise me ye’ll nae take unnecessary risks just tae prove ye can.”

“I promise tae be as careful as circumstances allow,” she replied, which they both knew was hardly a promise at all.

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