The Laird’s Forbidden Vow (Preview)
Chapter One
1665, Dun Brae
“Where’d the little rat go?” the guard snarled, his torch casting dancing shadows across the timber-framed walls as he searched for the intruder who’d been sneaking through the castle’s restricted passages since before the cock’s crow.
Pain exploded through Isla’s chest where his boot had found its mark moments before. She pressed her back against the cold stone, clutching the stolen guard’s cloak to her chest. The coarse wool scratched against her skin like thistles, but it was her only disguise—her only hope of reaching the council chamber where the Highland lords were deciding her clan’s fate.
It was true that her father was there to speak for the MacAlpins, but those past months had shown how quickly words could be twisted, how easily a good man’s intentions could be manipulated by greedier man.
Her clan had finally clawed its way back to prosperity after years of near-ruin, and she wouldn’t let their future be battered away in some smoky chamber while she sat meekly by the hearth. She had to hear their schemes with her own ears—to know exactly what threats and promises were being made—so she could find a way to protect what her people had fought so hard to rebuild.
Breathe, Isla. Breathe and think.
The stolen cloak hung loose on her small frame, hiding her feminine curves beneath its shapeless folds. She’d taken it from a sleeping guard just after dawn, along with his leather cap which now concealed her telltale auburn hair. Her heart still raced from that first theft—creeping into the guards’ quarters like a common criminal, holding her breath as the man snored off his ale-soaked dreams.
The guard’s footsteps grew closer, his breathing heavy with exertion and the lingering effects of last night’s revelries. She could hear him muttering under his breath, cursing whoever had assigned him to patrol the castle’s maze-like corridors instead of enjoying the Highland Summit’s festivities in the great hall.
“Should be down there with a cup of ale and a warm serving wench,” he grumbled, his torch wavering as he stumbled slightly. “Nae chasing shadows through these cursed passages like some common watchman.”
A rat scurried across her foot, and Isla bit back a gasp that would’ve given away her position. The tiny sound was enough to make the guard pause, his torch turning in her direction like a hunting hound catching a scent.
“I ken ye’re there,” he called out, his voice slurred but determined. “Come out now, and I might not break every bone in yer worthless body. Make me chase ye, and I’ll take yer hide as payment fer me trouble.”
Nae bloody likely.
Isla’s fingers found the dagger tucked into her boot, drawing the familiar weight of steel into her palm. The blade had been a gift from her father years ago—meant for cutting threads and opening letters, not defending herself against drunken guards.
The guard rounded the pillar with his torch raised high, expecting to find a cowering servant or perhaps a thieving beggar. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with a hooded figure whose amber eyes blazed with defiance. He dropped the torch in surprise.
“What in God’s name—” he began, but his words were cut off as heavy footsteps announced the arrival of another guard.
“Problems, Alasdair?” The second guard was older, more sober, and infinitely more dangerous. His hand rested casually on his sword hilt as he studied the scene with calculating eyes—a veteran warrior’s gaze.
Isla grabbed the fallen torch and hurled it at the tapestry behind her. The ancient fabric caught fire immediately, flames racing up the wool and filling the passage with thick, choking smoke that turned everything into a hellish maze of orange light and shifting darkness.
In the confusion, with both guards coughing and cursing as smoke stung their eyes, she managed to slip past them like a ghost. Their shouts of alarm echoed behind her as she sprinted toward the council chamber, the smoke slowing their pursuit—but she had only minutes before the entire castle was searching for her.
Her lungs burned from the smoke, but she pushed forward through sheer determination. As she approached the council chamber, she heard voices from a side passage—urgent whispers that made her blood run cold.
“…everything is in place,” one was saying, his voice barely audible. “MacAlpin will be dead before the hour is out. MacDara’s blade is already positioned.”
Isla pressed herself against the stone wall, her heart hammering. They were planning to murder her father.
Heart pounding with urgency, she crept toward the main council chamber. She found her hiding place behind a massive tapestry depicting Robert the Bruce’s victory at Bannockburn, pressing herself against the wall as the debate raged beyond. The ancient weaving was thick enough to muffle any sounds she might make, but thin enough that she could see through gaps in the fabric.
Please let me be wrong about this. Please let me fears be naething more than imagination.
Through the largest gap in the heavy fabric, she could see the assembled lairds seated around the massive oak table that dominated Dun Brae’s council chamber. The table itself was carved from a single enormous tree, its surface polished by centuries of use. Clan banners hung from the vaulted ceiling, their colors muted by age and flickering torchlight.
Her father sat toward the middle of the table, shoulders rigid with tension, his weathered face like granite as he listened to the political maneuvering swirling around him.
“The MacPherson uprising has shown us the dangers of allowing rebellious clans tae fester unchecked,” Laird Cameron was saying, his voice carrying the weight of his sixty years and twice as many battles. “We must present a united front against outside threats, or we’ll face the same chaos that nearly tore Ireland apart.”
“Unity is well and good,” growled Laird MacDougall from across the table, his scarred face twisted with old resentment. “But some clans have grown too powerful fer their own good. The MacAlpins, fer instance, now have their daughters wed tae two of the most powerful clans in their territory—including the Wallaces, who were their sworn enemies once. How dae we ken MacAlpin isnae using these marriages tae seize control of all the Highland lands in his region?”
Her father’s jaw tightened at the implied insult, but his voice remained steady. “The MacAlpins have bled fer these lands longer than some clans have existed, MacDougall. Me daughters followed their hearts in choosing their husbands, and fortune smiled upon us that love created bonds between clans that might otherwise have remained divided.”
“Aye, but enemies have a way of becoming friends when it suits their purposes,” MacDougall shot back. “What’s tae stop ye from using these new family ties tae seize control of all the Highland territories? Yer daughters have positioned the MacAlpins at the center of a web of alliances that could strangle the rest of us. How dae we ken ye’re nae planning tae become overlord of the entire region?”
As her father’s voice rose in defense of his clan’s honor, Isla’s blood ran cold remembering the whispered words she’d overheard in the passages.
MacAlpin will be dead before the hour is out, the blade is already positioned.
She scanned the chamber frantically, looking for any sign of the threat she knew was coming. But the debate continued, the lords absorbed in their political maneuvering, completely unaware that death was stalking among them.
The debate raged on for what felt like hours, but Isla’s attention kept drifting to the shadows, searching for any sign of the assassin with his positioned blade. Every servant who entered made her heart race, every movement in her peripheral vision sent alarm through her veins.
The hour was nearly up.
Finally, as the lords began to disperse with plans to reconvene the following morning, Isla slipped away from her hiding place. She had to reach her father before he returned to his chamber alone, but the corridors seemed endless, and by the time she reached the guest quarters, she could hear the sound of struggle from behind her father’s door. Steel rang against steel, followed by a crash of overturned furniture.
She burst through the door to find her father locked in deadly combat with a masked assassin, both men bleeding from multiple wounds. Her father, exhausted from the long day of political maneuvering, was clearly losing ground.
“Faither!” she cried, but the assassin used her distraction to press his advantage, driving her father back against the stone wall.
Strong hands grabbed her from behind before she could find another weapon, iron-strong fingers wrapping around her throat. She felt the cold kiss of steel against her neck as an assassin’s blade pressed against her pulse.
“Stop fighting, or the bitch dies!” the assassin snarled, his voice carrying across the chaos.
The clashing of steel slowed as heads turned toward them. Isla met her father’s horrified eyes across the blood-soaked chamber, seeing her own death reflected in his anguished expression. The assassin’s grip tightened around her throat, and she felt the blade bite deeper into her skin.
The killer raised his blade for the killing blow.
So this is how it ends.
Chapter Two
Steel sang through the air with deadly precision, the blade sweeping so close to Isla’s throat she felt the wind of its passage. From the shadows near the chamber’s entrance, a massive figure exploded into motion—a warrior she hadn’t even noticed entering during the chaos. The assassin’s weapon clattered across the stone floor as a Highland claymore knocked it from his grip with bone-jarring force.
The man towered above her fallen attacker, his massive frame silhouetted against the firelight. Ash-brown hair caught the dancing flames as he moved with fluid, lethal grace, his sword cutting through another assassin’s guard with controlled fury. His emerald eyes showed no emotion—cold, calculating, efficient.
Saints, he’s magnificent.
Even in the midst of mortal combat, Isla found herself utterly transfixed by this stranger who fought like death incarnate.
The stranger’s blade found another target, but more assassins poured through the chamber doorway—this had been planned as more than a simple murder.
“Get down!” the stranger roared as crossbow bolts whistled through the air.
Isla dove behind an overturned table, her hand finding the small dagger at her boot again. When an assassin rounded her makeshift shelter, she struck without thinking, the blade finding the gap between his ribs just as her father had taught her years ago. The man’s surprised grunt turned into a death rattle.
But there were too many of them. Steel rang against steel as the stranger battled three men at once, his claymore weaving deadly patterns through the air. No wasted motion, no unnecessary flourishes. He fought like some ancient god of war, but there was something almost beautiful in the deadly efficiency.
“Behind ye!” Isla screamed as another assassin appeared from the corridor.
The warning saved the stranger’s life, but now she was exposed. A masked killer lunged toward her, his blade aimed at her heart. She rolled desperately, feeling steel slice through her sleeve and bite into her arm. Pain blazed white-hot, but she kept moving, kept fighting.
The stranger’s roar of fury echoed through the chamber as he saw her blood. His next strike nearly cleaved his opponent in half.
Within minutes, the last assassin lay dead on the chamber floor. The stranger stepped back, already scanning for additional threats, his attention apparently focused on practical matters, though his eyes lingered briefly on the blood seeping through Isla’s torn sleeve.
Silence fell over the chamber, broken only by labored breathing. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air.
Isla tried to stand and immediately swayed, her vision blurring. The excitement, terror—and blood loss—had taken their toll, and she could feel exhaustion creeping through her limbs.
Without a word, the stranger caught her arm—not gently, but with the efficient grip of someone preventing a tactical disadvantage. His touch was impersonal, businesslike, though she noticed his fingers carefully avoided her wound.
“Ye’re shaken,” he stated flatly, his voice sounding like distant thunder, the deep timbre making something flutter unexpectedly in her chest, already moving her toward a chair. His eyes flicked to the blood seeping through her torn sleeve. “And wounded.” Not a question, not concern—just fact.
Isla found herself studying his profile as he checked her wound. His face was lined from years of war, jaw tight with discipline. There was a thin scar along his left temple, and his nose had been broken at least once. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as he examined the gash on her arm, though he worked with the same cold efficiency he’d shown in battle.
What was she doing, focusing on this man when her father had just almost been killed? It was hardly the time to be noticing how his hands moved with practiced skill, or how the firelight caught the gold flecks in his eyes.
“I need tae tend tae me faither,” Isla protested, trying to move toward where Alistair was slumped against the wall, pressing a cloth to a wound on his arm.
The stranger stepped smoothly into her path, blocking her progress. “He’s stable. Ye’re nae.”
“I can judge me own condition, thank ye very much,” she snapped, irritated by his presumptuous manner.
He didn’t look impressed by her defiance. “Blood loss and shock make hands shake. Ye’d dae more harm than good right now.”
Despite her frustration, Isla felt an unexpected flutter as his calloused fingers briefly checked her pulse at her wrist—clinical, detached. But there was something about the controlled strength in his touch that made her breath catch.
Sweet Mary, what is wrong with me? The man treats me like a broken piece of equipment, yet his touch sets me skin ablaze.
He moved past her to examine her father’s wounds with practiced skill, his touch impersonal as a battlefield surgeon’s. When he finished, her father thanked him for his intervention and he stepped back immediately, already turning his attention elsewhere.
“What’s yer name?” Isla asked, irritated by his dismissive manner.
“MacLaren.” He was scanning the room, assessing damage, counting bodies.
“Laird Connall MacLaren,” her father supplied, approaching with obvious relief despite his wound. “I owe ye a debt—”
“Nay debt.” Connall’s voice was flat, final. He moved past them both to examine the fallen assassins more thoroughly, kneeling to check their weapons and clothing for identifying marks.
Isla watched him work, growing more irritated by the moment.
“Well,” she said, wincing slightly once he started to clean the cut on her arm, “We are grateful fer yer timely intervention,” she offered and then added under her breath, “though ye work like a battlefield surgeon—all efficiency and nay bedside manner.”
Connall looked up, his green eyes moving briefly to Isla’s face. For one moment, she thought she might have his attention, might have earned some reaction.
Finally. Maybe now he’ll—
But his gaze moved on just as quickly, dismissing her as thoroughly as if she’d never spoken.
Or nae. Sweet Virgin, it’s like I’m invisible.
He turned to Alistair instead.
“This was coordinated,” he said simply to her father. “Professional. There will be others.”
“We’ll need tae increase security,” Alistair replied. “But first—”
“I’ll handle security,” Connall cut him off, standing and wiping his blade clean. “Me men will coordinate with yers. The immediate threat is contained.”
He began walking toward the door, clearly considering his business there finished.
“Laird MacLaren, wait,” Alistair called after him.
Connall paused but didn’t turn around.
“Where are ye going?”
“Tae check the perimeter.” His tone suggested this should have been obvious. “Unless ye prefer tae wait fer tae next attack.”
Without another word, he left. The chamber door closed behind him with a resonant thud that seemed to echo Isla’s growing frustration.
It was infuriating.
Isla immediately moved to help her father, tearing clean strips from a hand towel nearby to properly bind his wounds. As she worked, her thoughts circled back to the man who’d just walked out. Connall MacLaren. She’d heard the name whispered in certain circles—a laird known for his silence, his sword, and absolute discipline.
“Hold still, Faither,” she murmured, focusing on the task at hand, even as her mind wandered to the way Connall moved with cold purpose, as if human connection were simply another inefficiency to be eliminated.
His indifference was more unsettling than outright hostility, and despite everything—the assassination attempt, her father’s narrow escape, the knowledge that more killers were likely hunting them—she found herself wondering what it would take to crack that stoic composure.
The thought should’ve been the least of her concerns. Instead, it lodged in her mind like a thorn, refusing to be ignored.
Outside, she could hear MacLaren’s voice giving crisp orders to the guards. Efficient. Practical.
Isla touched her wrist where his fingers had briefly checked her pulse. Most men would’ve used such contact as an excuse for lingering touches, meaningful looks, whispered words of concern.
But not him.
The chamber door opened with a creak, and Connall MacLaren stepped back inside. His green eyes swept the room with that same tactical assessment, taking in the now-secured space and her father’s bandaged wounds with apparent satisfaction. His gaze moved past Isla, focusing entirely on her father.
“Perimeter secured,” he announced to Alistair, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Additional guards posted. Nay further immediate threats detected.”
“Good,” Alistair replied with obvious relief. “I’ll be doubling me own guards as well, and I want two of me most trusted men assigned specifically tae Isla’s protection. We cannae leave her safety tae chance.”
Isla’s temper flared. Before she could stop herself, she stepped forward. “Perhaps if we hadn’t been so focused on political maneuvering, we might have noticed the threat under our very noses. These assassins didn’t just appear from thin air—someone let them in.”
Her father shot her a warning look, but Isla barely noticed. Her attention was fixed on Connall, waiting.
He looked at her then, really looked, for the first time since he’d saved their lives. Those stormy green eyes held her for a long moment, and she felt something shift in the air between them.
“Bold words,” he said quietly, his voice carrying just enough to reach her.
“Bold but true,” she shot back, lifting her chin. “Or dae ye disagree, Laird MacLaren?”
The corner of his mouth might have twitched—or perhaps it was a trick of the lamplight. “Boldness and wisdom arenae always the same thing, lass.”
“And what would ye ken about it?”
This time, there was definitely something in his eyes—amusement, perhaps, or challenge. “I notice more than ye might think.”
The simple statement sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. “I… thank ye,” she said quietly, her earlier anger deflating as the reality hit her. “Fer saving our lives. Fer noticing when it mattered most. I’m grateful, truly, even if I’m terrible at showing it.”
“Ye’re nae terrible at it,” Connall said, something shifting in his expression. “Just… unused tae needing rescue.”
“Aye, well I suppose I’ll need tae get better at accepting help,” she said with a rueful smile. “Though I doubt our paths will cross much once this crisis passes.”
Connall stepped closer, close enough that she could catch that scent of leather and steel that seemed to cling to him. When he spoke, his voice was low, meant for her ears alone.
“We shall see, lass,” he said with quiet intensity, his green eyes holding secrets she couldn’t begin to fathom. “We shall see.”
Connall paused at the door, his hand on the latch. Without turning around, he spoke over his shoulder. “Get some rest, Lady MacAlpin. Tomorrow will bring new challenges.”
As he stepped into the corridor, Isla followed him, her frustration finally boiling over.
“That’s it?” she asked, her voice sharp with frustration. “Ye save our lives, then walk away with naething more than pleasantries?”
Now alone in the corridor, he turned to face her fully. “What would ye have me say, lass? That ye’re bonny? That ye’ve got more fire than sense? That watching ye face down trained killers with naethin’ but a wee blade was…” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Ye dinnae need me words tae ken what ye are.”
Finally.
A crack in that armor.
“And what am I, exactly?” she pressed, stepping closer.
Now he did turn, and the look in his eyes made her pulse quicken. “Dangerous,” he said simply. “Tae yerself. Tae yer faither. Tae any man fool enough tae—” He cut himself off again, jaw tight.
“Tae what?” she demanded.
“Tae think he could tame ye.” The words came out rougher than he’d intended, she could tell. “Good night, Lady MacAlpin.”
That time when he left, he didn’t return.
Isla stood in the empty corridor for several long moments, her heart racing for entirely different reasons than before. Dangerous. He thought she was dangerous.
Finally, she gathered herself and returned to the chamber, closing the door softly behind her. Her father looked up from where he sat tending his wounds, his eyebrows raised in quiet question.
“Everything settled between ye and MacLaren?” Alistair asked mildly.
“Aye,” she said, though her voice sounded strange even to her own ears. “Everything’s… settled.”
She moved to help him with his bandages, but her thoughts remained fixed on those storm-green eyes and the words spoken in the shadows.
Well, Connall MacLaren, if ye think I’m dangerous now, just wait.
As she worked on his wounds, her father’s expression grew more serious. “Isla, we need tae discuss what happened tonight. These weren’t common thieves or opportunistic killers.”
“I ken,” she said quietly, focusing on the task at hand. “They were organized. Professional.”
“Aye. And that means this isnae over.” Alistair winced as she tightened a bandage. “We need tae be more careful. Both of us. Nay more wandering the corridors alone, nay more taking risks.”
“Faither—”
“Nay arguments, lass. Tonight proved that our enemies are willing tae strike at the heart of a Highland summit. There’s naewhere we can consider truly safe now.”
The gravity in his voice sobered her completely, pushing all thoughts of mysterious Highland lairds from her mind.
After helping her father settle for the night, Isla found herself drawn to the chamber window. Below in the moonlight courtyard, she could see Connall’s tall figure moving among the guards, his voice carrying faintly as he gave orders. Even from a distance, there was something commanding about his presence—the way the other men deferred to him, how he moved with that same controlled precision she’d witnessed in the battle.
Dangerous, she thought, remembering his words about her. Aye, perhaps I am. But so are ye, Connall MacLaren.
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