Chapter One

Inveraray Castle, Clan Campbell, 1689

“I dinnae care what ye dae tae keep her in here. Break her legs if ye must, but make sure she goes naewhere.”

Isabeau had been on her way to the drawing room, one of the few sanctuaries she had in the castle, when she heard her father’s voice boom through the corridor. She paused, one foot on the stone landing, her heart already beating erratically, bile rising to the back of her throat.

He was talking about her; he had to be.

Her hand hovered near the edge of the banister to steady herself. The door to her father’s study was slightly ajar, just enough for the low murmur of voices to filter through the heavy wood and into the dim corridor.

“Until the ink’s dry an’ the marriage is secured, I’ll nae risk another foolishness from her,” he said, his voice like the crunch of gravel under a boot, rough and merciless. “An’ once she’s with the Grants, we’ll have killed two birds with one stone. She’ll be their problem then.”

Isabeau’s stomach turned. Her knees trembled, but she forced herself to still, to stay as quiet as she could. Her hand reached for her shoulder instinctively, where an old scar still ached with weather and memory, a sharp sting coursing through her. Another voice—a guard’s, deeper and quieter—responded, but she barely heard him. Her mind was roaring, her vision tunneling in on the single, terrible truth under her father’s words.

This is me last chance.

Once the marriage was sealed, there would be no escape, no freedom; only a different kind of cage with different hands to bruise her. At least here, in her home, she had a few people who cared for her, in their own way and as much as they could, servants and maids who took pity on her and gave her a kind word, a warm smile, some company.

She turned, silently slipping down the next step. Her body moved on instinct, every motion honed by years of survival in her father’s house—soft-footed, breath shallow, ears sharp for the wrong creak or muffled shout. She didn’t allow herself to think further than the next step, and then the next after that. If she gave the situation any more thought in that moment, she feared she would falter or fold.

Once in her chambers, she pressed her back against the closed door, letting her eyes slip shut and her breath quicken.

It is now or never.

For years, she had thought of escaping. For years, she dreamed of the moment she would be free from her father’s tyranny, but she had never managed to do what she had to. Staying there was not an option, though, not anymore. She had endured too much already; this was the final straw.

Isabeau composed herself with a deep, steeling breath. She stood straight and looked around her room. Everything beloved to her was there—some old books, a small bouquet of dried flowers, given to her fresh by a bold stable boy and preserved by her own hands, and an old family heirloom that she never dared to wear around her neck in front of her father.

And now, she had to say goodbye.

The stash she had hidden for months trying to find the courage to escape, a battered satchel filled with dried herbs, a flask of water, some crusted bread wrapped in cloth, and a few pilfered coins, was waiting, already packed and wedged behind a loose panel under her bed. She took it quickly, strapping it across her shoulder and yanking the coarse cloak of dark wool over her dress. Her fingers trembled as she reached under the pillow for the final item: a dirk, thin and sharp, stolen from a guard who once made the mistake of passing out near the kitchens after a wild night.

Footsteps stopped her dead in her tracks, bent as she was over the bed, satchel in hand, her other shoving a shawl inside. Her eyes stared at the door as she waited to see if someone would come in.

It was guards, she noted—the steady rhythm of their boots familiar to her. Had they all received word from her father to keep a close eye on her? Had they come to ensure she was in her rooms?

But then, as suddenly as the footsteps had come, they disappeared down the hallway as the guards passed her room. It was just their rotation, she told herself, nothing more than the usual patrol around the castle.

And yet, she didn’t waste any more time before she slipped out of her room.

By the time Isabeau reached the back gate, the sun had slunk low enough to bathe the hills in rust-red hues. Shadows stretched long, the darkness of the night lurking just around the corner, but Isabeau welcomed it. There was only one way to slip out unnoticed, and that was in the dark.

Isabeau crouched in the lee of the stone wall, pressing herself against the cold as she waited. The wind howled around her, stirring her dark hair and the hem of her cloak. The chill was biting on her cheeks, stinging and reddening her pale skin. No protection seemed to be enough against it, and no matter how much Isabeau curled into herself, huddling to fight the cold, it still seeped into her bones, making her shiver.

But it wouldn’t be long before the change of guard. There was a window, small and unlikely, in which she could slip out of the castle unnoticed—as long as no one searched for her before the change of guard, at least. But as unlikely, as dangerous, as miraculous as an escape sounded, Isabeau kept her faith. She had no other choice, and so she would make it.

The patrol passed—two men on foot, speaking idly of wagers and women. She counted the seconds after they vanished, praying quietly under her breath. The satchel pressed to her chest, held like the precious thing it was, Isabeau glanced around her when she reached fifty, the former guards too far down the path to hear her and the next ones not yet there.

And she ran.

Each step was agony and freedom. Her boots sank in the mud that had formed after the previous night’s rain, the soles sticking to the soil and making her trek even more laborious. Still, she ran like a woman with a knife at her throat and the promise of air just beyond reach. Her satchel bumped against her ribs, the strap digging into her shoulder. Her ankles threatened to roll with every step, and her lungs burned with the effort it took to run through the tall grass, the marshy ground that gave under her weight.

She didn’t look back, too fearful of what she might see. Even when she thought she heard footsteps and shouts, even when the wind played tricks in her ears, she kept pressing forward, heart hammering in her chest.

She didn’t stop, not until the castle torches were a far-off glimmer and the trees of the lower woods swallowed her whole.

It was dark there, darker than it had been on the hill. The sunlight of that day was rapidly fading, giving its way to the inky night. The first star had just appeared in the sky, and the dirt path that stretched before her seemed more uninviting than ever before.

This is what I need… the darkness. I cannae see, but nae one can see me either.

Ahead of her, the dirt road sloped down into a shallow valley, flanked by brambles and skeletal oaks. Her lungs burned. Her legs burned, her eyes, her throat; Isabeau was barely holding herself together. She slowed, chest heaving, and let herself believe for just one moment.

If I can reach the village… just the village. Spend one night in an inn, then head south tae the Lowlands. I can say I’m a cook, I can… I can make a modest livin’.

She would change her name. She would cut her hair. She would forget what it meant to be a Campbell.

Her feet carried her down the path, taking one step at a time. With each step, her dream seemed more and more within reach. Hope fountained inside her unbridled, and she let it carry her forward, her feet picking up speed.

But just as she was about to take a turn in the path, the sudden crack of underbrush behind her shattered her fragile dream like glass.

Isabeau froze, startled to stillness. Her heart began to pound again, too loud, too fast.

Another step, this one closer. Then another and another, until it seemed to her that she was completely surrounded, the sounds coming from every direction.

She turned slowly, reaching into the folds of her cloak, her fingers closing around the worn hilt of the dirk. The blade felt insignificant in her grip, but it was all she had, and she’d be damned if she didn’t use it when, from the gloom behind the trees, four figures emerged like wolves drawn to scent.

They were gaunt, filthy, their breath misting in the cooling air as they laughed among themselves. One wore a shredded tartan around his waist; another had a broken tooth and blood crusted at the corner of his mouth. All of them reeked of ale and sweat—the kind of stench that gathered outside inns and taverns of the kind Isabeau had the misfortune to visit only a few times in her life.

“Look what we’ve got here,” one of them slurred. He was a large man, tall and stout, and Isabeau had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. “Wee rabbit’s run from the warren.”

Isabeau didn’t answer. Her feet shifted slightly, widening her stance, and her dirk glinted faintly in the half-light, the weight of it in her palm her only comfort. She kept her face calm, but her hands were slick with sweat, and she tightened her fingers around it, keeping her grip secure.

“Bonnie thing,” another said, stepping closer. Older than the first man, his eyes glinted in the dim light. “Pretty even with that look. Ye lost, lass?”

“I’ll gut ye where ye stand,” she said, voice like ice. It was a lie, but it sounded real enough.

The men laughed, loudly, cruelly. They circled her like feral dogs, their boots grinding the earth into dust, their leering grins made more grotesque by the bruises and grime smeared across their faces. Isabeau turned in place, her breath shallow, the dirk trembling in her grip. She held it like she’d seen guards do—blade forward, stance braced—but her hands were too slick with sweat, her limbs too light with panic.

“How much d’ye reckon she’ll fetch?” The first one asked. “If we sell her tae the right hands, she’ll fetch us a handsome price.”

“I’d wager more than a few coins fer a lass like this,” the third man said, stepping closer, his gaze dragging down her front. “If we dinnae get used tae her first.”

Bile rose up Isabeau’s throat, the sharp sting of it making her swallow hard. She had no doubt that those men meant her harm. There was nothing empty about their words, nothing that made her think they were too cowardly to deliver on their threats. These men were thieves—men looking for easy pay. And now that she had stumbled into their path, they had found just that.

“I am a lady, born o’ noble blood,” she snapped, lifting her chin in defiance despite the tremble in her jaw. “If ye touch me, me faither will have yer heads.”

They paused as if considering it—but only for a moment.

Then the one nearest to her barked a laugh. “A lady, is it? Och, sure, an’ I’m the king.”

“A noble-born, travelin’ all alone, nay carriage, nay guards tae keep an eye on her?” the large man asked. “Isnae that funny, lads?”

“Let us see what kind o’ liar she really is,” said another, the smallest and youngest of the four, who looked at her with a sneer that was as mocking as it was chilling.

And then they lunged.

Isabeau screamed and slashed out blindly, her blade carving a shallow gash across one man’s forearm. It was the young one, the first one to reach her, and he roared in pain, stumbling back. It was the opening she needed, and she wasted no time before she sidestepped the man, running deeper into the woods, hoping she would lose them.

There was no going back and there was no going forward. All she could hope for was a place to hide for a while, somewhere that would keep her safe until those brutes decided to leave.

For a brief moment, she tasted freedom. For a brief moment, she held the hope that she could outrun them, snaking through the trees just out of their reach, but the others were on her too fast. The flash of victory was extinguished too quickly, too mercilessly, and she had no time to flee before the rest were upon her.

One caught her wrist mid-swing, another slammed his boot into the back of her knee, and she collapsed with a cry, her cloak tangling around her legs. Isabeau kicked and clawed, baring her teeth like a wild animal, but the dirk was wrenched from her hand by a hand much stronger than hers, and flung into the brush.

“Nay!” she gasped, but it was gone.

A rough fist seized her by the shoulder and slammed her into the dirt. Her cheek scraped the ground, a stinging pain coursing through her entire face as her skin was cut by a fallen twig. The fight burned through her muscles, and she twisted and turned in the men’s grip, desperate to throw them off her, but it wasn’t enough—not against four men, all of them towering over them.

I’m doomed. I cannae fight them an’ I cannae escape them.

“Get the rope,” one snapped. “She’s worth somethin’, aye, but only if she daesnae scratch out our eyes first.”

Within moments, one of them crouched down next to her, quickly tying her wrists behind her back as two others held her still. Her throat burned with her screams, her voice now hoarse and rough. The cord dug into her wrists like fire, cutting deep as they bound her, tighter and tighter, until her fingers throbbed with numbness. Her ankles were tied next, the rope so tight she cried out furiously.

Still she fought—squirming, spitting curses, thrashing like a creature half-mad with rage and terror.

“Let go o’ me, ye brutes! Animals!”

They didn’t care. No matter what insults she hurled at them, they fell upon deaf ears.

They shoved her hard onto her side, but instead of attacking her as she expected, they yanked her satchel away. The food, her coin, her carefully packed herbs—all dumped into the dirt and picked over like scraps. She watched with growing dread as they pocketed what little she had left, their hands soon rifling through her cloak and bodice in search of anything else to steal.

I’ll starve without coin. How will I make it tae the Lowlands?

She refused to believe that she wouldn’t make it due to the attack. She refused to believe she would be held their captive, that there was no saving herself. The Lowlands were still the goal; anything else was unthinkable.

Isabeau’s vision blurred with hot, furious tears. Without money, she had nothing—no way to pay her way there, no way to buy food or passage. If she stayed there someone would recognize her. Someone would drag her straight back to her father.

One of the men leaned closer, eyes narrowing as he glanced down her skirts.

“What about under here?” he sneered, reaching for the hem.

Her scream tore through the woods like thunder. She kicked at him with stiff, furious legs, but before he could touch her, another sound cracked through the underbrush.

Another set of footsteps, heavy and deliberate.

The thieves froze, and from the shadows ahead, a figure stepped into the path.

Hood drawn low, obscuring his face in the dying light, Isabeau couldn’t make out his features, but she could see he was tall, broad-shouldered. Something about the way he moved made the air still, as though the very world around them held its breath.

And though he didn’t speak, Isabeau knew his gaze was on her. She felt it like a prickle on the back of her neck, like a shiver that refused to fade.

Who is this man who hides his face?

Chapter Two

The thieves were a blur in Isabeau’s vision. Two of them lunged at the stranger, their blades flashing in their hands, and Isabeau’s breath caught. The man moved just as fast, cutting down the largest of the thieves with one, swift swipe of his dirk.

Never before had Isabeau seen such speed and confidence, such skills. Never before had she seen someone strike down another man with such ease, like he was nothing but a sack of grain. The thief crumbled to the ground, falling dead before he had even hit the soil, and the stranger was quick to set his sights on his next target—the young man who had looked at her with that detestable sneer.

He’s so strong… he looks like a statue brought tae life.

The younger one hesitated for a moment after seeing the show of brutality before his eyes. But then, his blade met the stranger’s with a clang, the two of them clashing with echoed roars. Isabeau watched them, her head held high off the ground, her neck craning as she tried to keep up with their fight as the other two men held her still, eager to see what the stranger would do—if he would manage to kill the other, if he would free her from these men.

But if he frees me, will I only be held captive by different hands?

Was that stranger a good Samaritan, someone who saw her suffer and wanted to help her? Or did he want to take advantage of her himself, to do to her the very same thing those men wanted to do?

Isabeau didn’t know, and she wouldn’t find out—not until the man had killed them all, if he could even do that. But her odds were much better if she was against one man than four, no matter how dangerous and ruthless said man was.

But why would he hurt me after savin’ me?

The men’s blades clashed again and again, their shouts deafening in the quiet road. Isabeau watched them with a racing heart, her chest rattling with it, her throat tight, her eyes burning. The stranger moved like a man possessed, like a wild, rabid animal whose only goal was to kill—and kill he did. His blade plunged into the man’s chest, slicing him open, and he watched as he stumbled backwards, clutching at the wound.

He hadn’t even hit the ground before the stranger turned to her, his blade dripping with blood.

“Damn ye,” one of the men holding her said under his breath as he yanked Isabeau up to her feet, the sudden motion making her dizzy. It took her a second or two, but then she struggled to get free, twisting in his hands, only for the man to hold her tighter, tight enough for bruises to bloom over her arms, over scars that had already healed and others that were still healing. But when the other who remained pressed the tip of his blade against her side, she stilled, her blood running cold.

“Take another step an’ I’ll kill her,” the armed man warned. Even through her cloak and bodice, Isabeau could feel the sharpness of his dirk, the sting of the blade.

The stranger tilted his head to the side as if confused. “What makes ye think ye can?”

The man’s voice, a deep, honeyed baritone sent a shiver down Isabeau’s spine. There was something terribly confident, almost cocky about the way he spoke to the other man, but Isabeau had no trouble believing that he could best the other, even when he was using her as a shield.

Isabeau screamed as blades met before her eyes, the man holding her refusing to relinquish his hold on her arms. The stranger, though he faltered and paused every time his blade came too close to her, as if fearful that he would harm her, kept the men at bay. He fought the two thieves at once, twisting and turning on his heel as he tried to parry the blows.

The blood rushed in Isabeau’s veins, pounding in her ears. The air around them was filled with the shouts of the three men, with the cries of terror that crawled out of her as the man tried to drag her away from the fight, unable to fight back or even find her balance. Her feet stumbled, her spine curved, and the more she tried to fight back, to force the man to let go of her, the tighter he held on to her.

But then, distracted as he was by her efforts, he was the first of the two to be struck down. The stranger’s blade caught him across the back, carving a deep wound into his flesh, and after mere seconds, Isabeau was finally free—only for the last man’s blade to slice through her stomach in the chaos.

Pain came first—sharp, white-hot, and sudden.

Isabeau gasped, the sound punched out of her lungs as the thief’s blade slashed across her. She couldn’t tell how deep it was, but it was enough to bring her knees buckling under her. The scream never made it past her lips. Only a breathless sound, fists trembling as blood began to soak through the layers of her bodice.

The stranger’s eyes locked into her own for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity. It was as though time stopped between them, and when he finally dragged his gaze away from her and back to the last man standing, his face twisting into a mask of fury.

The man who had wounded her didn’t stop to look. He was too busy parrying the deadly storm of steel the stranger unleashed with every step forward.

“Ye bastard,” the stranger said through gritted teeth, his words coming out between breathless pants as he attacked the other man again and again, showing no mercy. “Daes it make ye feel good, hurtin’ an innocent lass? Daes it?”

The other man didn’t speak. Isabeau doubted he could, with the way the stranger was attacking him. But she couldn’t help but stare, her lips slightly parted, her heart thumping with every breath she took, as grateful to him as she was intrigued by his existence.

It was over in seconds. The stranger grabbed the man by the shoulder and shoved his blade through his stomach, then deeper, before finally twisting the blade with a cruelty that chilled her to the bone. But Isabeau couldn’t care too much about that—not when dizziness gripped her, sudden and unbeatable.

The pain in her stomach throbbed in time with her heartbeat, and warm blood fountained out of her, drenching her dress. The world began to go dark and fuzzy around the edges, and in the end, she crumpled onto the cold dirt of the forest floor, jaw clenched against the groan that escaped her lips.

Within moments, the stranger was there, crouching down next to her, the scent of sweat and steel and blood lingering on him like a shroud. He knelt beside her, his shadow swallowing her whole.

Her heart stopped when she saw the flash of his blade once more. But this time, he aimed for the bonds around her wrists, cutting off the rope, before he moved on to her ankles, finally freeing her. Isabeau rolled to her back on the ground, a hand coming to press against the wound on her stomach, her palm instantly tacky and warm from the blood.

He was so close to her now that Isabeau could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, see the flecks of gold in his eyes. From up close, the first thing she noticed about him was how handsome he was—his forehead high and regal, his jaw sharp under a smattering of dark stubble, his generous mouth twisting in concern.

He saved me. Had it nae been fer him, I would be dead now.

But what if he leaves me here?

Then she would certainly die, if not from the blood loss, which was bound to claim her, then from an infection. Getting to a healer was no easy task, it was not something she could deal with herself.

“Let me see.”

The voice was low, roughened by the wind. Isabeau should have flinched. She should have pulled away, but something in the tone—commanding, yes, but not cruel—made her hold still. Her heart thundered, her vision flickered at the edges, but her pride flared sharp under it all.

Isabeau’s gown clung to her, heavy with blood. The fabric at her midsection had torn, baring a strip of pale skin and the angry red gash that stained it. The pain pulsed, jagged and unrelenting, but it was the man’s hand—reaching, not hesitantly, but purposefully—that finally made her flinch.

She shuffled back, one arm wrapping instinctively around her ribs to shield the wound.

“Dinnae touch me.” Her voice cracked but held steel beneath the tremor. “I’m fine.”

The stranger didn’t draw back immediately. His eyes flicked to the wound, then to her face, as though gauging which was more stubborn—the injury or the woman bearing it.

“That cut needs lookin’ at,” he said flatly. “Ye willnae make it far with it bleedin’ like that.”

“I’ve made it this far.”

“Barely.”

His words weren’t cruel, but they cut all the same. It was a cold assessment, devoid of pity.

“I’ll take ye tae a healer,” the man said, insistent. “Where’s the nearest village?”

“I dinnae need yer help,” she said, suddenly furious—at the pain, at the blood, at the way her limbs trembled despite every order she gave them to be strong. She didn’t trust this man—she didn’t trust anyone.

“Ye dinnae have much o’ a choice,” he pointed out. His voice was quiet, but there was something sharp in it, something that made her stomach clench. “Ye want tae bleed tae death in these woods, that’s yer right. But if ye want tae live, we need tae get that wound stitched right the now.”

Isabeau faltered, her hand tightening around the torn fabric of her dress. She knew he was right. The cut was deep enough; every breath stung, and her gown was already drenched in blood. If she didn’t clean it and close it soon, infection would do worse than any blade.

She didn’t want to die there, not in the cold, not with strangers’ blood still drying on the leaves.

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