Chapter One

Scotland, 1293

Rowena MacKenzie would have done anything to get away.

The rope chafed against her wrists as Gregor hauled her from the saddle, his meaty hands gripping her arms with bruising force. Her horse snorted and danced sideways, sensing her distress, but there was nowhere to run. Dense Highland forest pressed in on all sides, and Hamish, the second man that had come after her and managed to get her, blocked the only clear path with his mount.

They both looked at her like she was nothing more than a runaway horse to be corralled and returned to her stall.

“Thought ye could slink off like a wee mouse, did ye?” Gregor’s breath reeked of ale and rotted teeth. “Alpin’s been waiting in the chapel since first light. Nae very bride-like, leavin’ yer groom coolin’ his heels, eh?”

Rowena lifted her chin, meeting his leering gaze with all the defiance she could muster. “He is nae me groom. I never agreed tae this farce!”

Hamish barked a laugh, sharp enough to startle the birds overhead. “Agreed? Ye think a lass like ye gets a say in who her husband is? Yer faither’s dead. Alpin’s the laird now, and if he says ye’ll wed this day, then wed ye will.”

“Me faither named me his heir—”

“Aye? And what good is a lass fer an heir with nay husband tae guide her?” Gregor yanked her forward, and she stumbled. “Alpin’s done right by the clan, taking the lead in a time of need. With him the power stays within the kin, with a man who kens how tae use it.”

How easily they all are tae forget their own. Alpin’s nae even part of the kin! He only wormed his way close tae faither because he’s me step-maither’s braither.

They pulled her closer to the horse, and when Rowena struggled, Hamish tightened his hold on her, wrenching her back by the upper arm. The rope around her wrists bit into raw skin as she twisted, fighting to loosen the knot through sheer friction. Every tug made her wrists burn, but she couldn’t stop. She needed a way out.

Rowena’s gaze darted around, taking in every shadow and thicket. The forest was dense here, but not impenetrable. If she could break free, if she could run, there might be a path hidden just beyond the rise to her left, where the trees thinned and a narrow game trail curved out of sight. But she’d only get one chance. One wrong move and they’d have her flat on her face, bound tighter, or worse.

“He has nay blood claim,” she said, her voice steady despite the panic clawing at her chest. “The elders will nae stand fer it—”

“They will accept what they’re told tae.” Hamish’s tone had the lazy cruelty of a man who’d never heard the word no. “Our new laird’s already got his bride in hand, and the priest ready tae bless it.”

Rowena’s mind raced. Once those vows were spoken, there would be no undoing them. Alpin would have a legal claim to everything: her inheritance, her clan, her very body. The thought made her stomach churn. She could not let her people suffer from his hunger for power.

“Besides,” Gregor muttered, adjusting his grip as if she were nothing more than a sack of grain, “ye ought tae be grateful. Alpin could’ve secured his place any number o’ ways. Marriage is the kindest.”

The threat hung in the air like a cloud of smoke. Rowena understood perfectly. Resist the marriage, and there might be an unfortunate accident. A grieving uncle, forced to take control of a clan left leaderless by tragedy.

“He’s been patient with ye,” Hamish said, reining his horse nearer. “But patience wears thin. Today, ye’ll be his wife. Time ye made yersel’ useful as a woman should.”

Heat flooded Rowena’s cheeks at the crude implication, but she forced herself to remain calm. Panic would serve no one, least of all the people who were still counting on her to protect them from Alpin’s rule.

Had any of them truly believed in me faither’s choice? Or had they simply been waiting fer an excuse tae set aside a female heir they’d never wanted?

The bitter thought twisted in her chest. Perhaps this betrayal had been inevitable from the moment her father had named her successor instead of seeking a male cousin to inherit the lairdship of Clan MacKenzie.

Gregor began pulling her toward his mount, and Rowena let her feet drag against the leafy ground, buying precious seconds to think. The forest around them was thick, unfamiliar territory she’d never explored. But unfamiliar might mean unguarded paths, routes these men wouldn’t expect her to run to.

“On with ye, then,” Hamish called. “Alpin’s got the whole clan gathered. It’ll dae ye nay good tae keep them waiting.”

As Gregor bent to boost her onto his saddle, Rowena saw her chance. The man’s attention was split between controlling his restless horse and maintaining his grip on her. Hamish was several paces away, confident in his partner’s ability to handle one desperate woman.

They’d underestimated her.

Rowena drove her elbow back into Gregor’s ribs with every ounce of strength she possessed.

Oh me God, I cannae believe I did this!

He doubled over with a grunt of pain, his grip loosening just enough for her to wrench free. Her hands were still bound, but the rope had begun to fray; she’d been working at it nonstop, twisting and pulling while they dragged her. She spun toward her own mount, but Hamish was already spurring his horse forward, his face dark with rage.

“Ye little—”

Rowena vaulted onto her horse’s back and dug her heels in hard. The mare leaped forward, crashing through the undergrowth as shouts erupted behind her. Branches whipped at her face and tore at her dress, but she leaned low over the horse’s neck and urged her faster.

Behind her, she could hear the thunder of pursuit beginning, the crash of bodies through the forest, and Hamish’s voice roaring orders. But for the first time since dawn, when she’d awakened to find her chamber door barred and Alpin’s men standing guard, Rowena felt a fierce spark of hope.

I willnae be dragged tae that altar. Nae today.

The forest opened ahead of her, and she, Rowena MacKenzie would do anything to get away and halt, even for a moment, the vicious plans of the uncle she had come to despise with all her heart.

The wind snatched at her unbound red hair and stung her eyes. The rhythmic pounding of her horse’s hooves against the muddy earth was a relentless drumbeat, echoing the frantic hammer of her heart.

Rowena’s eyes darted through the blurring trees as she searched desperately for any familiar landmark, any sign that she was not utterly lost, but there was none.

There were only endless woods and the loud echo of hooves pounding the forest floor. The chilling certainty that her step-uncle’s men were closing in on her. She’d glimpsed the determined faces of men who enjoyed a hunt.

“Ye can dae this, ye can,” she muttered to herself, trying to keep the panic from clawing at her throat. “Think, Rowena. Ye can always find a way.”

She urged the mare on. The loyal creature was clearly at its limit, and her lungs were raw from the frigid air she gulped in, but she would not stop. She would not yield. Submission meant a fate far worse than the biting cold.

Her heart slammed furiously against her chest. He is nae going tae force me tae marry him.

She had to escape, to fight with every fiber of her being until she drew her last breath. A new wave of fear ripped her from her thoughts as a brutal crashing sound drew close.

The hulking brute named Gregor, was gaining on her. “Stop now, lass, or we’ll run ye down!” he yelled. “The laird said tae bring ye back alive, but he didnae say ye need tae be in one piece!” His horse was a dark blur through the trees, and its heavy breathing was almost louder than her ragged gasps.

Laird Alpin. Rowena scoffed mirthlessly. It surely hasn’t taken the fùdar any time tae get comfortable.

The man’s hand lashed out, his fingers grazing the edge of her gown. “Ye cannae run forever!” he barked. “I’ll have ye soon enough, and ye’ll wish I hadnae!”

Rowena’s eyes went wide with terror, but she spun with a snarl. “Ye’ll have tae kill me first!”

There was no time to think. With a surge of adrenaline, she yanked hard on the reins and forced her exhausted horse into a gap barely wide enough to squeeze through.

Gregor’s larger warhorse crashed against the rough, unyielding rock. Its rider cursed loudly as he was thrown off course, buying Rowena a few precious seconds.

The terrain grew rougher still, and the path narrowed to little more than a deer trail, winding through thickets of thorny gorse and tangled roots that threatened to ensnare the mare’s legs. She pushed the horse, exhausting the animal’s last reserves, and they suddenly burst into a clearing that gave way to an open bank.

A vast shimmering expanse appeared before her. A loch!

Its surface was a sheet of steel grey under the shifting clouds. It was wide and still, reflecting the bleak morning sky.

Hope surged in her chest. For one reckless moment, she imagined herself plunging into its depths, losing herself beneath the cold water, and leaving her pursuers to search in vain. But the thought vanished as quickly as it came. She didn’t know how deep the waters would be, or whether the weight of her soaked gown would pull her under. She had come too far to risk losing her life in a desperate bid to vanish.

Her thighs ached from riding, every muscle tight from gripping the saddle too long. The cold bit at her face, but her back was damp with sweat beneath her cloak, her breath misting in shallow, ragged bursts. She had not dared to stop, not even once. Her fingers, stiff around the reins, trembled from more than the chill.

She urged the weary horse towards the pebbled shore, desperate for anything but the suffocating press of the forest. Anything but the gnawing fear that she would hear hoofbeats again behind her.

A part of her longed to stop. Just for a breath. To dismount, to gather herself, to be something more than a hunted thing. But there was no time. No place safe enough for composure.

Just as her horse skidded to a halt on the wet stones, Rowena tumbled from the saddle. Her knees buckled on impact, and she tried to catch herself but her body betrayed her as she tumbled into the water and bumped into something hard.

Her breath caught in her throat when she looked up and found that she had stumbled not into something but into someone. A man. It didn’t help that she was on her backside and the bottom of her dress was wet from the encounter. She moved backwards in a bid to preserve her dignity.

“I’m so sorry!” Rowena said as she walked out of the loch hurriedly. Her eyes settled on the man, and she managed to suppress her gasp.

He was tall, impossibly broad-shouldered, and standing waist-deep in the loch. His body was honed muscle, cords of strength roping around him. His nude form rose from the dark water like some ancient god emerging from the mists of time.

The sight stole the very air from her lungs. God, he’s handsome… and naked!

His hair, black as a raven’s wing, was slicked back from a face made of granite. Sharp cheekbones fell upon a jaw that seemed carved from ice. Water streamed in powerful rivulets down his chest and sculpted arms, and they gleamed in the light.

He dipped his head into the water, and as he rose back up, he cupped his face with both hands. His hands slid up his face and over his head, drops of water splashing back into the loch. His eyes were sharp, piercing blue, and utterly devoid of surprise. They stripped away her last defenses with an unnerving glance, making Rowena shiver.

Her gaze lingered a moment too long, drawn to the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his stance as the man started swimming, unfazed by her presence there, closer to the loch’s edge. Her breath hitched, and she stumbled. It wasn’t proper staring at a naked man, and yet she couldn’t seem to look away until her misstep reminded her just how foolish she was being.

The frantic shouts of her uncle’s men echoing through the trees, was what yanked her back to the present. She froze, trapped between her hunters and the shocking presence of this wild, powerful stranger. Her tongue, so often quick with a retort, had completely failed her now.

“Please, ye must help me, Sir.” Rowena refused to dwell on how undignified it was to plead a naked man for help in the middle of the woods. God above…

One of his brows lifted, carved and unbothered. “And why, lass, would I dae that? I dinnae even ken ye.” His voice was low and rough as a storm breaking, and it nearly knocked the breath from her throat.

Although she knew it was a fair question—helping her could put him in harm’s way. What had she expected? That a stranger would leap to her aid without so much asking for a name, without knowing who chased her? Or, most importantly, why?

The sensible part of her understood his caution. But desperation had no patience for reason. He was all she had now, the last thread between her and everything Alpin meant to do to her. She could not afford his doubt, even if it was well earned. Her life hung in the balance.

“I ken I ask much,” she said, her voice steady despite the dread rising in her throat. “But me life’s in danger. If they catch me, I lose everything. So I beg ye, lend me yer hand.”

The man regarded her with a curious air. He walked out of the loch as if he had all the time in the world, water sliding off his exquisite body in rivulets. Rowena had half expected him to scramble out and rush to his clothes, or to command her to turn around. He did none of that.

Instead, he held her gaze as he reached the shoreline, one brow lifted and a flicker of something close to a smirk touched his mouth, like he knew exactly what he looked like and didn’t see the point in modesty.

Then, with maddening ease, he said, “How ken I help ye?” His tone was demanding, and Rowena felt she’d succeeded to gain his interest. Whether it was a good thing, she wasn’t sure.

Rowena turned her face away as he walked to the pile of belongings, but not before she caught a glimpse of his lower body, which sent heat flooding through her in a way she didn’t understand. Her heart hammered against her ribs—not from fear this time, but from something else entirely. Nothing could have prepared her for this strange pull in her belly, this awareness that seemed to awaken parts of herself she hadn’t known existed.

“Have ye never seen a naked man before?” She heard him huff a laugh, but she kept her back turned. Though she refused to look, her cheeks warmed at the boldness of his question.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed him picking up his clothes, putting them on with an idle pace. “Now, what’s got a pretty woman such as ye approaching a stranger for help?” His movements were almost dismissive of the approaching danger.

How can he be so calm?

Armed men were bearing down on them, and he was dressing as if he had all the time in the world. What kind of man reacted to an imminent threat with such casual indifference? Had she stumbled upon a madman?

“They are coming,” she said breathlessly, the only words she could utter. “They’re close.” Her hand trembled as she gestured wildly towards the forest. “Two men on horses are after me! I dinnae ken them. Please!”

He continued to dress like he had all the time in the world, and Rowena bit her lips in worry.

I havenae come this far just tae be dragged back tae Alpin!

But she was helpless against the chase of her pursuers and this stranger. She was meant to be back home, readying to find a suitable spouse so she could take over her father’s legacy. How had she ended up here?

She looked back at the man and found eyes that assessed her with a cold, piercing gaze that missed nothing. Rowena felt the urge to straighten, to lift her chin and meet that scrutiny head-on, as if passing whatever unspoken judgment he was rendering might somehow secure his help.

The man seemed to have found what he was looking for in her, because he finally nodded. His gaze flicked to the trees. “Hide then, behind the mound. Take yer horse with ye. Dinnae come out until I come tae ye.” He pulled his kilt around his waist as he delivered the promise: “And worry nae. I willnae allow any harm tae come tae ye. Ye have me word.”

Relief washed over her so swiftly it nearly brought her to her knees. For the first time in weeks after her father’s death, someone had taken a burden from her shoulders, even if only for a moment. She nodded, almost dazed, willing herself to move.

She should have asked what his plan was and questioned how he intended to stop a hunting party of two armed men. But her body ached, her mind spun, and she was simply too spent to argue.

What will he dae? How is he going tae stop them, by himself?

Chapter Two

Without a word, Rowena scrambled to her horse, who stood trembling by the water’s edge. She led her behind the grassy mound and pressed herself and the horse against the damp earth of the rise. They were concealed just as the first of her step-uncle’s men burst into the clearing. The two armed riders arrived, their faces grim with fury, their horses snorting and stamping.

From her hiding spot, Rowena watched, breathless, as the man pulled an apple from his satchel. He washed it casually in the loch before taking a crisp, loud bite. His nonchalance appeared almost deathly, an unsettling display of control that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Lost yer way, lads?” His voice was deceptively calm.

Their eyes darted nervously over his exposed skin, their apprehension at encountering a lone man by a remote loch made obvious by the subtle looks that passed between them.

Gregor clearly found the man’s blasé attitude maddening. “Mind yer own business, stranger,” he spat. “We are on the hunt for a runaway lass.” He gestured vaguely towards the loch, then around the clearing, clearly uncertain if she had vanished into the water or the woods.

“Ah.” The man nodded and tilted his head. “A runaway, did ye say?” A clear challenge sparked in his glacial blue eyes, an invitation to dismiss or underestimate him if they dared.

Hamish, standing on his horse beside Gregor, shifted tensely. His hand tightened on his sword hilt. “This is none of yer business, ye savage. Be gone before ye find yersel’ in trouble.”

Sharp eyes roamed over the moor, pausing just long enough to rake over her hiding place with unsettling precision. Then the man turned, met her gaze from across the distance, and, bold as anything, winked. A slow, deliberate thing, full of confidence. Rowena’s breath caught. Heat flared beneath her skin and she ducked her head, mortified that he’d caught her watching. By the time she dared look again, he’d already shifted his attention back to her uncle’s men.

“Savage? Now ye’ve hurt me feelings,” he said, pressing a hand over his heart. “And I’m nae the one chasing after a poor lass, am I?” His tone suddenly lost its amused edge. His eyes darkened further, almost black now, though she hadn’t thought it possible. They seemed to absorb the light, stripped of all warmth, all flicker of life.

“As ye can see, there is nay runaway here. Now be on yer way before I make ye.”

“How dare ye speak tae us that way!”

“I see ye’d like me tae repeat meself.” His tone was level as he spoke. “I am nae in the habit of daein’ so, but I am in good spirits and shall make an exception fer ye this morning. I said, nay, runaway lass passed through here. ‘Tis only me and the water. Be. Gone.”

“Ye’re lying!” Gregor snarled, his hand moving to his sword hilt. “This is the only path after the forest breaks. She must have come this way.”

The man’s voice remained steady, almost bored. “I have told ye what I saw. Naethin’ more.”

“Aye, and I say ye’re protecting her.” Hamish’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Tell us where she’s hiding, and we might leave ye breathing.”

“Might?” The man’s tone now carried a subtle edge. “How thoughtful of ye.”

Gregor’s face darkened at the mockery. “Mock me again, and I’ll carve that smirk from yer face. Last chance—where is she?”

“I suppose we have naethin’ more tae discuss, then.” He gestured for them to draw closer. The man’s stance shifted almost imperceptibly. “Come ahead, if ye think ye can manage it.”

Rowena stared, scarcely daring to breathe.

Is the man daft? Standin’ alone and unarmed, challengin’ warriors as though he fears naethin’?

He had no sword, no shield. Nothing but boldness and a strange command about him.

Did he mean tae face them bare-handed? Is he truly so certain he’d prevail?

And yet, for all the madness of it, there was something in the steady way he held himself, that made it impossible not to look away.

Rowena’s breath seized when Gregor drew his blade with a vicious hiss of steel and jabbed it forward. The threatening thrust was aimed directly at the warrior’s chest. But instead of landing on him, the blade struck the apple in his hand with a sickening thwack.

The fruit fell and rolled down the slight incline towards the loch, disappearing with an impossibly loud splash.

It was the only instance that Rowena, watching from her hiding spot, noticed a flicker of annoyance in the man, as though the act was an insult, a waste of his time. The small reaction was more terrifying than any outburst.

Her savior moved like he was one with his sword. The boredom that had formerly tinged his movements vanished, suddenly replaced by a cold focus that alarmed her as much as it thrilled her.

Gregor lunged further, his blade arcing downward in a heavy strike that would have cleaved a lesser man’s skull. But the stranger wasn’t there—he’d shifted left with fluid grace, letting Gregor’s momentum carry him past. In one seamless motion, he caught Gregor’s wrist with his free hand and twisted sharply. The crack of bone was audible even from Rowena’s hiding place. Gregor’s sword fell from nerveless fingers as he screamed.

Before he could recover, the stranger drove his knee into the man’s ribs with savage precision, making Gregor double over, gasping. Then he took the fallen blade and with a quick, surgical thrust it into Gregor’s shoulder, pinning him to the ground.

Saints preserve me, is that precision even human? He hasnae hesitated, nae once. Each blow has landed with cruel exactness, and yet his movements are almost… elegant.

Gregor roared, a guttural sound of pain and shock that sent birds flying out of the trees. Rowena watched him clutch his bleeding shoulder as he writhed on the forest floor.

Serves ye right, ye bastard.

“What kind of devil are ye?” Hamish cried, raising his sword with shaking hands. But fear had made him clumsy, predictable.

The stranger read Hamish’s attack before it began—saw the telltale shift of weight, the slight draw back of his shoulder. He stepped inside Hamish’s guard as the blade swung down, trapping it against his body. He just had the time to remove the blade from Gregor, and with deadly efficiency he moved and found a gap between Hamish’s ribs. Hamish’s eyes widened in shock before he crumpled, unconscious from pain and blood loss.

Both men were neutralized, bleeding profusely but alive. Yet the entire fight had lasted less than thirty seconds. The man’s fighting style was unlike any brawl she had witnessed among clan warriors. He battled with wits, cunning, and unnerving skill. Every movement was deliberate, calculated. He fought like a man who had killed before and would kill again without hesitation.

Rowena felt her core tighten, breathless at the display of his sheer power, the potent force of him.

As he made his way to the mound where she was hiding. She noticed blood at his side, and he stumbled slightly, a clear sign he’d taken a hit.

Before she could decide what to do, or even process the complex emotions swirling within her, the man had approached the mound, his voice dry and tinged with a hint of sardonic amusement. “Seems yer chase has come tae an end, lass. Care tae explain what kind o’ trouble ye’ve dragged me intae?”

“Nay trouble, I swear it. The men came on me suddenly in the woods. When I wouldnae yield tae their advances, they gave chase.” The lie tasted like ash on her tongue, but it was the only way to avoid revealing her real identity.

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Two armed men. Chasing ye like hounds. All fer refusin’ whatever ‘tis they wanted?” His brow lifted in clear disbelief, making her panic. “Seems an awful lot of effort fer a bruised ego.”

Rowena’s heart hammered against her ribs. “It appears they were nae the kind of men who respect being told nay.”

“Aye, but most men dinnae run after a lass for sayin’ nay. And, certainly, those were nae common brigands. They moved like soldiers. Spoke like men takin’ orders.” He leaned back against the mound, arms folding across his chest, his gaze never leaving hers.

His voice dropped low. “So I’ll ask ye again, what are ye really runnin’ from?”

Rowena looked at the man. He was still a stranger​​—a dangerous one, by the look of it. The ground behind them was littered with the groaning remnants of a fight he’d won with the kind of strength she’d be a fool to misjudge for luck.

Two trained warriors, men who had served her father in battles, who had survived countless skirmishes, reduced to bleeding, broken things in mere moments. And he’d done it with such casual efficiency, as if disarming armed men was no more taxing than swatting flies.

Even now, as he stood calmly beside her, she could sense the leashed ruthlessness that thrummed beneath his composed exterior.

This is nae a man who will be easily crossed, nor one whose protection comes without its perils. And I have landed mesel’ in the center of his attention…

“Nae trouble,” she repeated, even though she didn’t fully believe if herself. “I promise ye.”

“Alright then. If it’ll help ye sleep at night, I’ll pretend tae believe ye, lass. Fer now, that is.”

That man had dealt with the two bloodied, unmoving bodies lying on the ground. The sight sent a ripple through her chest. He’d done that for her. Fought in her defense without so much as asking her name.

Rowena forced herself to meet his piercing and unreadable eyes.

He extended his hand toward her without a word and Rowena took it without hesitation, surprising herself. His hand warmly closed around hers, and calloused skin brushed her knuckles, rough like the hand of a warrior, not a courtly man.

As they walked away from her hiding spot, he didn’t let go. His grip remained steady, a reassurance woven into every step, as though he suspected the sight she’d witnessed had unsettled her more deeply than she let on.

Rowena felt out of her depth. “Thank ye,” she said, and dipped a quick, shallow curtsy. Her gaze flickered to the dark stain of blood spreading on his side, and his eyes followed hers.

“’Tis naething,” he said with a wave of his hand. It made her feel almost foolish, standing there so full of worry when he could barely be bothered to acknowledge the wound.

With the immediate danger past, Rowena found herself truly seeing the man for the first time. The steady rise and fall of his chest as his breathing slowly returned to normal. There was something magnetic about his calm confidence, the way he seemed to command the very air around him.

Her pulse quickened, though it wasn’t from terror anymore, but from something altogether more reckless.

“Are ye certain?” The words came out softer than she intended, almost breathless. She took a step closer, ostensibly to examine the wound, but in truth, an urge to be closer to him again took control of her body. The scent of him filled her senses—leather and steel and something uniquely masculine that made her stomach flutter.

His gaze caught hers and held it, and she felt heat creep up her neck. “I have had worse,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a rougher edge now. “Though I confess, having such a bonny lass fret over me makes it worth the trouble.”

Rowena blushed. “Would ye have me tend yer wound? I feel fair awful, knowing ye took it defendin’ me honor.”

A flash of amusement ran through the man’s gaze. “‘Tis but a shallow cut.” He walked to the water, knelt inside it, and splashed some against the wound. Rowena watched with quiet fascination.

He daesnae even flinch!

The man came and stood facing her beside the loch’s edge, where the morning sun had long since given way to the duller light of afternoon, filtering through the canopy above and casting dappled shadows across the forest floor. The water behind them shimmered like glass, disturbed only by the occasional ripple of a drifting breeze.

He had sheathed his sword, yet he remained alert, his stance relaxed but coiled with readiness, as though he could spring into violence again in a heartbeat.

Rowena found herself acutely aware of the space between them. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, yet far enough that their arms didn’t quite touch… though she caught herself wishing they might.

Focus Rowena!

“What is yer name, lass?”

“Why would ye like tae ken?” She crossed her arms, a gesture that was half defensive, half teasing.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I cannae demand the name of the woman I just risked me life fer?”

Rowena almost snorted at that, even though she knew he was right. “Fair enough. I am Rowena… Rowena Fraser.” The false name was a shield between her true self and this stranger. She searched his face for any reaction, a flicker of recognition or suspicion, but she found nothing.

He nodded, then casually bent to retrieve another fallen apple, brushing off the dirt on his tunic before biting into it.

From this close, Rowena couldn’t help but notice how for all the brutality he wielded with ease, not a single scar marred his face.

It makes him all the more unsettling… arresting.

“I’m Constantine MacLean,” he said, his voice a rumble that sent a shiver down her spine.

“A pleasure tae make yer acquaintance,” she said, surprised by how steady her voice sounded.

“A pleasure tae have saved yer life,” he countered, that hint of a smile growing bolder.

She gestured toward the unconscious men and took a few steps toward them, crouching beside the nearest. “I suspect, though, ye enjoyed it more than ye should have.”

“Aye,” he waved a dismissive hand, though he followed a short distance behind her His eyes sparkled with something that might have been amusement. “I would dae it again.”

She cast him a look over her shoulder. “What? Fight two armed men fer a stranger?” She raised an eyebrow at the easy declaration. “That is either very noble or very foolish.”

“Perhaps both.” He tilted his head slightly, still chewing, his gaze shifting from the unconscious men back to her with quiet intensity. “Though I am beginning tae think ye’re worth the risk, Rowena Fraser.”

Her breath caught at the way he said her false name, as if he were tasting it. She rose and dusted her skirts off, then turned her gaze toward the trees, toward where threat might still be lurking for her. That may not have been the last of her step-uncle. Her instinct for self-preservation clashed with her urgent desire for help.

“So ye truly would dae it again?” she asked, lifting her chin with a challenge in her voice. “Put yersel’ in danger fer someone ye dinnae even ken?”

His eyes glinted. “Are ye admitting ye’re dangerous then, lass?”

“I am admitting that helping me might be.” She stepped back toward her horse, brushing her hand along its flank for steadiness, though her gaze didn’t leave his. “Two men with swords hardly seems like ‘nothing’ tae most people.”

“Most people,” he said, closing the distance as he tossed the apple core into the brush, “are nae me.”

“Aye, so I have noticed.”

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This is the story of Gale, an adventurous English lady who runs away to escape her murderous mother and finds herself in the company of an alluring Highlander. There she is called to change her ways, and he helps her see the world from a different point of view. But her past is catching up with her. How will she elude her mother? And will this be the only obstacle in their relationship?

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