The darkness of the night pressed against the window of Isolde’s bedchamber. The silvery light of the full moon painted the world beyond it in a cold, pale light. Isolde stood at the window, watching. Waiting. The rest of the household would be retiring for the night soon and when they did, she would slip out and see what all the commotion had been about for herself.

Three days prior, her father had returned from battle after claiming victory. Moy Castle had been reveling ever since with feasts and music. The celebration had left her feeling cold. And that was likely because on the day he’d returned, she had seen him marching two men in chains through the gates. She didn’t know who they were at first, but Isolde had listened to the whispers around the castle and had heard their names.

Finlay and Struan Cameron.

At first, she did not recognize the names. Her father never told her anything. But she had been naturally curious—something that had gotten her into trouble more times than she could count—and had gone searching for the answers herself. It hadn’t taken her long to hear the whispers about the Camerons, a clan her father had battled with many times over the years. They had been a constant thorn in his side and he had finally defeated them.

It was no wonder he was celebrating his big victory. But Isolde thought the entire affair was tasteless. Celebrating the deaths of so many, just to claim some land, seemed cruel and offensive. But then, her father would likely say that was because she was soft, that she let her heart dictate too much. It was just one of the many of her shortcomings her father never failed to criticize. She knew he’d longed for a son and was disappointed that he had not had one.

He had always been angry that her mother died giving birth to her, blamed her for it. He treated her like she was unworthy of life and of his name. He never failed to take out his frustrations in life on her. To make her feel small. Useless. He seemed to revel in making her feel like she was a burden and that his life would be infinitely better without her.

Many nights Isolde had lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing for a life beyond the walls of Moy Castle. A life well away from her father, filled with laughter and joy. Filled with love. Isolde fantasized that one day she would have a life of her own choosing, one that would allow her to be and do what she wanted, maybe even with a man beside her who believed in her. A man who spent his time building her up rather than tearing her down.

She dreamed of a life spent with a man of her choosing. A man she loved and who loved her back. She longed for a family she could call her own.

Her dreams were simple. But they seemed forever unattainable to her. That was why she spent most nights crying herself to sleep.

The sound of heavy steps echoed in the corridor outside her bedchamber. The voices of the men were muffled but she could hear them well enough to know the guards were in the middle of a shift change. She sat up in her bed and listened intently. Isolde held her breath until she heard the sound of their marching boots fade into the distance.

She swung her legs over the side of her bed and got to her feet. She had never undressed that night, so she put on a pair of soft-soled slippers, then ran to the door. Opening it carefully, she peered into the corridor. It was empty. Slipping through the open door, she closed it softly behind her before she turned and darted down the hallway.

Moving as swiftly and silently as a shadow, Isolde made her way to the chambermaid’s room. She slipped inside and quickly lit an oil lamp so she could see. She walked to the back of the chamber and reached behind a large wooden stack of shelves. She fumbled around until she found the lever, then gave it a pull. With a soft click, the stack of shelves swung outward, revealing the hidden passageway behind it.

Isolde moved into the passageway quickly and pulled the door closed behind her. Moving swiftly on soft feet, she followed the hidden corridor, passing other hidden doors that branched into other parts of the castle. Years of skulking about in the shadows had allowed her to map out the entire extensive network of secret corridors in her father’s castle.

Listening for the sound of movement in the corridor behind her, Isolde found her way to the room she was looking for. Carefully opening the door, she peered through the crack to ensure the room beyond was empty. It was. Isolde slipped in and closed the door behind her, then moved to the small windows and peered through them to the great dungeon hall below.

She had heard the whispers from the chambermaids. She knew that one of the men who’d been brought in was taken to Cluny House by Laird Dougal MacPherson. The price of that favor was her hand in marriage. Her father was marrying her off to Dougal, a cold and cruel man, yet wealthy and powerful. He was just the sort of man her father would do business and ally himself with.

The mere thought of being forced to marry him turned her stomach, but she pushed it all from her mind. Right now, she simply wanted to get a glimpse of the man who had inspired so much chatter and gossip among the chambermaids. A certain mythos had been built up around this man that piqued her curiosity.

Standing on a small crate, she peered into the chamber below and had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep her gasp burst from her mouth. The guards below fell silent and Isolde had to duck down the windowsill to avoid being seen.

She held her breath and waited until the men started speaking again before she stood once more and got her first real look at the man.

He was a huge man, with broad shoulders and large, defined muscles covering every inch of his body. Stripped to the waist, his hands were bound, connected to a chain that hung from the ceiling. His face, which she could see was handsome despite his state, was bloody and swollen, dark purple and black bruises marring his flesh. It looked like her father’s guards had spent the last three days beating him.

His entire beautiful body was a shrine to pain, past and present. A network of scars, more extensive than her father’s hidden passageways, crisscrossed his body. He was obviously a warrior. One who’d seen many battles in his time.

“Laird Mackintosh says we’re nae tae kill this one,” she heard one of the men say.

“Daesnae mean we cannae have some fun with him though, eh?” said the other.

She watched as the men took turns driving their fists into his body, each impact making a wet, fleshy sound. The prisoner grunted with every blow, but he did not speak. Instead, he kept his head held high, his jaw clenched, determined not to show weakness in front of them. And although she winced and grimaced with every blow, she could tell he was a proud man. A man who would show them no fear. A man who would simply endure.

Isolde felt her respect for the man growing. She wished she could be more like him.

Isolde stuffed down the pity that flashed through her heart for him. He did not deserve it. She gritted her teeth and watched in awe as her father’s guards beat on him. The man though, endured it all in silence. He stood proud, barely flinching as he took punch after punch. He simply bore it with a dark, grim grace that captivated Isolde.

Finally, the man grimaced then spat a thick red glob onto the stone floor at the feet of his attackers. He narrowed his eyes and glared at them with pure malice on his face. As she watched him, as she studied his eyes, Isolde saw the light of grim determination shining bright in him. She knew that he would not be broken. Would not be cowed. It was in that moment she knew the man bound and shackled in her father’s dungeon would escape. She wasn’t sure how, but she knew it as sure as she knew her own name.

And as that thought settled into Isolde’s mind, she knew she would be able to use the confusion that would follow his escape to make her own…

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