Chapter One
Scotland November 1720
Near the coast of the Isle of Skye
Standing by the rail on the big birlinn as it raced over the white-capped sea, Lady Selene Montgomery breathed deeply of the salty air. The breeze had sharpened, and she tucked a wayward strand of her rich chestnut hair behind her ear and pulled the hood of her cloak close.
She had grown awfully tired of travelling. It had been many weeks since she’d left her crumbling estate in Hertfordshire and boarded the northbound coach. It had been a slow and uncomfortable journey as the coach lumbered along the rutted and muddy stretch of road all the way to Scotland.
Her mind roamed back to her first taste of Scotland. She’d stayed for two weeks in a charming villa on the outskirts of Edinburgh with a distant relative of her brother-in-law, Laird Halvard MacLeod of Raasay. It had been new and exciting. Edinburgh and its university were alive with intellectual, philosophical discussions, and there was much talk of new discoveries in science and medicine.
But, alas, once her small party had departed from the city and entered the Highlands, things had taken a turn for the worse. The road was little more than a rough-hewn track where no coach could pass. The Highlanders were ruffians, kilt-clad giants who spoke either in a foreign language she did not understand, or some kind of garbled English that was almost as difficult to comprehend. They bore no resemblance to the elegantly dressed Scots she’d met in the city.
And she couldn’t even contemplate the terrible food they consumed.
After more than ten days on horseback, they reached the coast at Mallaig and, by the time they embarked on Halvard’s birlinn for the last leg of the journey, she was aching from the tip of her head to her toes. She could scarcely curb her impatience as they grew closer to their final destination, the Isle of Raasay.
But before she could at last be reunited with her dear younger sister, Elsie, they had to briefly break their journey so that an important missive from Laird Halvard to the Laird Kenneth MacDonald at Duntulm, could be delivered.
From there they would finally sail on to Raasay. Mayhap she would be with Elsie in only two- or three-days’ time.
If I don’t go quite mad before that.
Selene lifted her head, the cold wind swirling her cloak about her. To the west, a bank of ominous clouds had gathered, darkening the sky and threatening a storm.
Jake MacLeod, Halvard’s trusted advisor, approached her. “We’re in fer a stretch of bad weather, milady. Mayhap it would be best if ye took shelter.” He pointed to the small wooden cabin at the stern. “There’s a lit brazier in there where ye could warm yer hands.”
She greeted his suggestion with a smile. “Thank you, Jake. I believe I am warm enough with my cloak and wool petticoat.” She held up her hands, “And my warm, knitted mittens.”
Jake nodded. “Very well, Lady Selene. But please, take care.”
After he’d left her, she leaned on the railing, her mind travelling ahead to her reunion with her sister. It had been many months since they’d been together and now Elsie was a married woman, in charge of her own Scottish castle.
Despite Jake’s warning, the squall took her by surprise. Before she could hasten to the shelter, the sudden rush of wind and rain had tossed away her hood and plastered her hair to her head. In a flash, rivulets of rain went pouring down her cheeks. The coastline was no longer visible behind the sheeting rain.
She looked around, hoping for someone to escort her from the prow as the ship was rolling and she could hardly take a steady step.
Buffeted by the sudden storm, some of the men were frantically hauling on the sails while others heaved at their oars, endeavoring to guide the ship as the waves rose. Selene clutched the railing, clinging on with all her might as the vessel was hit by a giant wave across the prow and she was deluged with salt water.
A bolt of lightning across the deck followed almost at once by an ear-splitting roll of thunder overhead jolted her heart and robbed her of breath. Then came another, and another. It was as if the heavens were assailing them with hellfire and cannons. Trembling, but determined not to show her fear, Selene pressed her hands to her ears and stumbled toward the shelter in the stern as the ship was enclosed in a white curtain of mist and rain.
With rain stinging her cheeks, Selene squinted into the shifting grey ahead. The storm had swallowed the horizon, yet through the dense veil of mist she became aware that a long, narrow shape was forming. Another ship, hardly more than a ghostly presence emerging from the gloom, was cutting fast across the darkened water.
She blinked.
Are the waves playing tricks on me?
But, no, there was another ship, dangerously close. The strange ship surged forward with uncanny speed, its bow rising and falling like some great beast stalking its prey.
What unsettled her most was its starkness. It bore no clan colors. No banners were snapping from its mast in the wind. There was nothing to proclaim its allegiance or its intent. It was a mysterious vessel in waters where every Highland sailor was born with a clan to his name and every ship proclaimed its clan ownership.
A chill that had nothing to do with the icy rain coiled through her belly.
What is this about?
Sudden thoughts of pirates and privateers flashed with terrifying clarity through her mind. Her breath was high in her chest, almost catching in her throat as she forced her shaking hands to unclench from the railing she’d been clinging to. She willed her breathing to steady, but then the other ship turned.
Not away, but towards them.
She glanced around. A shudder seemed to ripple through Halvard’s men as the dangerous reality of their situation dawned, far too late. Anxious, concerned voices rose. The air thickened with panic. Someone shouted an order that was drowned instantly by a peal of thunder.
Too close now, the stranger’s bow cut across their path, and in a burst of violent motion, heavy iron hooks arced through the rain and slammed onto the birlinn’s side with a sickening scrape.
Before Selene could even cry out, men were swarming over the rail, their boots thudding onto the deck, each of them armed with long blades that glinted pale and wicked beneath the storm’s fractured light.
Chaos erupted around her.
Her guards surged forward, trying desperately to form a shield between her and the raiders, but the attackers came in a relentless tide and she was forced to stand, watching the tumult and the carnage. The clashing of steel – sharp, ringing, fierce and terrible – along with the heartrending cries of the wounded and dying, were carried away by the howling wind. Rain sprayed across the deck in blinding sheets. Men slipped, grappled and fell. She saw Jake wielding his sword, his flintlock pistol still in his belt for he’d had no chance to draw and fire it. He fought bravely but numbers overcame him and he went down under a shocking surge of at least four men. One by one, Halvard’s loyal crew were cut down or driven to their knees and slaughtered.
This cannot be happening.
The birlinn lurched sharply under the sudden weight of the alarming number of bodies and the fury of the waves. Selene staggered, reaching out blindly. But before she could grasp the nearest rope to steady herself, a rough hand seized her arm in an iron grip. A raider – tall and broad, his face half-hidden in the deluge – yanked her toward the mast.
“Let me go!” she gasped, struggling to wrench her arm free. He gave her a mocking laugh, his hold on her arm tightening cruelly.
The storm roared in her ears. The deck spun beneath her feet.
Then – another horn blast split the fog. Deeper. Stronger. Terrifyingly close.
Through the writhing mist, a second vessel broke into view, scarcely visible through the gloom, flying a flag of black slashed with deep red.
The man dragging Selene hesitated for the barest moment as the impact from the other ship jolted against the side of the birlinn.
It was enough. Selene’s fierce instinct gave her courage. She twisted sharply beneath the man’s grip, kicking out, catching a glancing blow to his shin. Desperate to free herself, she wrenched her arm away from his grasp. As he reached for her again, she managed only to stumble backward, buying a breath’s worth of distance before he lunged again. This time he lifted his blade.
She cried out.
“Keep away from me, you brute.” Her scream rang out loud and long, penetrating the sounds of the onslaught. She looked around, frantically seeking another foothold, somewhere she could escape the huge man’s reach. But alone she couldn’t do anything. Was there no one to come to her aid?
“Help me!” she shouted into the mêlée.
At the very moment the man raised his vicious sword to strike her down, a loud, commanding voice came out of the darkness, causing him to pause, his arms still holding the sword aloft.
“Lower yer sword, ye damned bully. Ye’ll nae treat an English lady with such disrespect in the Highlands.”
The words, as low and deep as the rumble of distant thunder, came from behind Selene. The raider’s eyes widened and before she could turn toward the speaker, a blur of motion descended upon the man. Steel met flesh with brutal force. No quarter was given as the newcomer rounded on her attacker brandishing his fierce sword in a furious onslaught.
It was over in mere seconds. Despite his great size, her attacker was no match for the stranger’s skill and strength. It was clear he had no chance against this new warrior. She staggered away just as her attacker tumbled to the deck, blood spreading in a dark pool, joining the stream caused by the torrents of rain.
She looked up, heart hammering, catching sight of the owner of the voice.
He stood over the fallen raider, chest rising with measured breaths, a sword in hand already wet with the storm and battle alike. His dark hair clung to his brow, he was tall and broad, and she caught a glimpse of a stern and angular profile. Clad in a sodden tartan kilt he looked every inch the Highland warrior that she had once believed only existed in exaggerated tales.
“I am at yer service me lady,” came the same rich tones as before, calm and unruffled despite the carnage surrounding them.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The storm raged between them, rain running down Selene’s face like tears. She had never witnessed such violence at such close range, not even on the roughest Highland roads.
When he stepped toward her, instinct shifted her backward. Her boots slid on the slick deck, but she managed to put distance between.
Her rescuer paused in his advance.
“There’s nay cause for fear.” His voice was raw but steady. “I’m nae a man tae harm a woman.”
Trembling, Selene swallowed hard, working to still her ragged breathing. “What you did…” She glanced at the prone form lying on the deck before her. “… was brutal.”
Something like a grim smile tugged at his mouth. “Aye, lass. I’ve ne’er claimed I’m nae a brute, yet I believe ye owe me yer life.”
The deck swayed beneath her, tilting so sharply she had to brace a hand against the nearest beam. Voices shouted around them in a torrent of Gaelic she could not understand. More men in dark tartan poured across the deck, their shields bearing a Highland crest she did not recognise depicting an armored hand holding a cross with the words ‘Per mare per terras’. Her knowledge of Latin told her it meant ‘By sea and by land’.
She searched her memory. Was that not the crest of the MacDonald Clan?
Armed, soaked, powerful, a formation of burly Highlanders drew up to surround her like a second storm.
Her rescuer lifted a hand to keep his men at bay, granting her a measure of space. But his eyes never left hers.
A ripple of something hot and warm rippled through her as their eyes met. She straightened her spine. That wild man would not see her weak and vulnerable. For all that, she could scarce keep her gaze from roaming the breadth of his shoulders and his strong arms as he stood tall before her, a half-smile on his lips.
He was a man like no other she’d clapped eyes on in all her travels. Or, for that matter, at any time during her calm and ladylike days in Hertfordshire.
“Who are ye?” he asked, “and why daes yer ship bear nay colors?”
She tried to answer, but the words caught in her throat.
A broad-shouldered Highlander with storm-grey eyes, the man’s second-in-command if she had to guess, stepped forward.
“A birlinn without colors draws suspicions,” he said plainly. Frowning deeply, he turned toward his companion. “Think on it, me laird. I’ve heard rumors that, since the rebellion, King George will confiscate the lands of any clan if he hears of conflict. There are many spies among us, itching fer the king’s favor tae claim our lands.” He turned his gaze momentarily to Selene. “With the unrest all through the Sound of Sleat and trouble between our traders and fishermen and the men of Raasay, she could be an English spy. Someone sent in the king’s pay ready tae make trouble fer us.”
Selene stiffened. “A spy?”
Her rescuer’s gaze hardened as he turned to her. “Aye. Ye need tae prove me wrong, lass. Ye’re English, sailing on a birlinn bearing nay flag. Why should we believe yer story?”
She drew herself as tall as she could and straightened her shoulders. “I am Lady Selene Montgomery, and who might you be, sir, to accuse me in such a reckless manner.”
“I am Callum MacDonald, first sword to the Laird MacDonald of Sleat.” His tone shifted, as recognition dawned in on Selene. “Mayhap ye’ve already heard of me laird?”
Her blood chilled. “Laird Kenneth MacDonald? The Brute of Sleat?” she whispered before she could stop herself.
Laird Kenneth’s jaw flexed and he flinched as if the mention of the title struck him like a thrown stone.
Selene clutched the small silver and pearl necklace at her throat – her mother’s, worn thin by years of her touch – and struggled to draw breath against the rising panic constricting her chest.
“You’re correct. I am English. But I… I’m not a spy,” she managed. “I’m travelling to the Isle of Raasay, to meet with the Lady Elsie, my sister. She is married to Halvard MacLeod, Laird of Raasay. We carried a message from him to you, Laird MacDonald, but—”
Kenneth listened to her words and nodded. “Where is this message ye speak of?”
She shook her head. As far as she could recall it was Jake MacLeod who had carried her brother-in-law’s sealed message. “I don’t know where it is. Mayhap if you search—”
Kenneth interrupted her, turning to his advisor. “Tell the men tae search fer evidence that will prove ae me this lass is who she claims tae be.”
Selene glanced down – and immediately wished she had not done so.
Bodies. Too many. Strewn across the planks like broken dolls were all that remained of Halvard’s loyal soldiers. She shuddered catching sight of Jake MacLeod’s prone form among them. Hot tears sprang into her eyes. These were men she had travelled beside for weeks, shared meals with, spoken and laughed with, grown fond of, despite the hardships of their journey.
A nauseating wave of grief washed through her and she bowed her head.
Several MacDonald warriors searched the bodies scattered across the deck, roughly turning each one. Then one man paused and held something up to the torchlight. It was a torn fragment of parchment, still bearing its wax seal stamped with Halvard’s crest. Selene felt a rush of despair. The note was gone.
Murmurs rippled through the watching men and she heard the word “Raasay” uttered more than once.
“See. I speak the truth,” she cried urgently. “You must believe me. I am no spy. That is a scrap of the legal parchment that was to be delivered. We were bound to Duntulm Castle to present it to you, sir.” She glanced at Kenneth, her eyes silently imploring him to believe her tale.
Her voice was drowned out by a terrible groan from the hull as a massive wave struck the ship broadside. The entire vessel shuddered violently, pitching men against masts and railings. Ropes whipped through the air. Shouts rose anew as the MacDonald warriors scrambled to secure their lines and prepare for transfer back to their own birlinn.
Selene flung out her arms in a bid to maintain her balance as the birlinn tipped alarmingly.
“Come,” Kenneth said, reaching for her arm as gently as the storm allowed. “You cannae stay aboard. Our birlinn rides steadier. I’ll see ye safe.”
She let him guide her, stepping over coils of rope and slippery planks as his men hastened to throw a boarding plank between the two ships. The wind screamed through the rigging. Rain hammered against her hood.
Just a few paces more.
Heart in her mouth, shaking all over, she went to step across the plank. At that very moment a monstrous wave caught the birlinn, raising it and slamming it down.
A violent, wrenching motion tore through the deck. The plank rolled into the deep. Selene’s foot slipped and her hand flew out clutching at the railing. To her horror the timber splintered beneath her grasp, causing her to lose her balance entirely.
Pitching forward, her feet went from under her and she uttered a desperate cry which was swallowed instantly by the storm. She flew forward, over the shattered rail and into the furious, churning sea below.
When she struck the water, it felt as if she was plunging into a wall of ice.
Cold seized her lungs. Her cloak dragged her under almost at once. The world above vanished into a blur of grey as the brutal, unforgiving current seized her, wrapping around her like cruel hands, drawing her inexorably into the depths.
Selene tried to kick upward, but the weight of her sodden clothing pulled her deeper still.
The storm’s roar dulled beneath the surface, replaced by a low, muffled boom that vibrated through her bones.
She struggled, bringing all her strength to bear, her hands reaching hopelessly for the surface – straining for air, for light, for anything. As the blackness claimed her, she became dimly aware of her face being pressed against rough fabric, and strong hands on her waist.
Then she knew nothing else as the dark, icy Sea of the Hebrides swallowed her whole.
Chapter Two
When the blackness finally peeled away, Selene woke to the glow of a fire.
It was not gentle warmth, but fierce heat around her, beneath her, above her, bringing life back to her almost frozen form. A deep, rhythmic rocking travelled through her body, as though she were being carried upon some steady current.
She blinked, making out very little through her hazy vision. Overhead, wooden beams flickered in and out of focus. The low groan of a hull shifting in the storm reached her ears. She was no longer in the water. She was on another ship, no longer on the birlinn that had been her refuge.
She was somewhere else.
Someone murmured nearby. A calm, deep voice she remembered – low and steady but, unmistakably in command.
Kenneth MacDonald.
Her awareness wavered again, drawing her between layers of sensation: the weight of a heavy woolen blanket tucked around her, the faint taste of salt on her lips, the distant echo of men shouting orders outside. But above all, she felt hands – large, calloused – adjusting the blanket around her with surprising care.
She dimly remembered his voice, taut with an urgency she had never heard in a man’s tone before. “Strip the wet off her,” he’d growled, “she’ll freeze else.”
Now, the evidence clung to her. Her gown and skirts were gone, replaced only by the thin linen of her shift beneath the blanket. Heat flooded her cheeks at the realization, but she was too weak to lift her head, too heavy-limbed to protest.
“Callum,” Kenneth said quietly, but his voice carried the iron weight of a command. “Make certain the men stay away from this cabin.”
“Aye.” Callum’s voice, lower and rougher, in response. The sound of boots thudded on the planks outside. “They’ll nae come near.”
“Good. The lass needs quiet.”
“But Kenneth—” Callum’s voice again.
“What now?”
“D’you truly think it was Aidan? This reeks of his daeing.”
A long silence followed. Selene’s senses drifted, but even in her half-dreaming state she felt the shift in the air – something dark and heavy, that brought the past into the present.
“Aidan’s behind everything,” Kenneth said at last. “He’ll never rest. Nae after what happened three years ago.”
The weight of those words lingered like the storm clouds outside, thick and brewing with the threat of something far greater. But before she could fathom their meaning, the world tilted again and she vanished again into darkness.
***
She woke abruptly to motion.
A rhythmic sway – gentler than the violent rocking of the ship, but firm enough to jostle her senses. Her cheek rested against something solid.
She inhaled sharply, her nostrils filling with new scents: grass, leather, and a familiar smell, warm and alive.
She was on a horse.
Not astride properly, but seated between a pair of strong thighs, her back pressed flush against a broad chest. A strong arm lay firmly across her stomach, anchoring her in place with absolute, effortless control.
She gasped and jerked upright – or attempted to. Leather tightened across her wrists. Her arms were secured in front of her with a short tether, preventing sudden movement.
“What in the name of all the saints in heaven—?”
The man behind her did not flinch. Not so much as a tiny shift of muscle.
“You’ll fall if ye dae that.” His voice rumbled through his chest, deep enough that she felt it against her spine before she even processed the words. “Sit still.”
Selene twisted as far as the tether allowed, and there he was – Kenneth MacDonald. For the first time she saw him clearly. And dammit. He was far too handsome, with that straight imperious nose and those cheekbones as sharp as blades. He was looking down at her with blue-grey eyes and a most infuriatingly calm expression. It was, for all the world, as if riding across a storm-soaked stretch of Highland terrain with a half-conscious Englishwoman bound to him was a perfectly ordinary occurrence.
And, dear God, perhaps it was.
“Untie me at once,” she snapped, heat flaring with rage. Then as she realized she was in nothing but her shift beneath the heavy plaid he had wrapped around her the heat rushed to her cheeks. She tugged futilely at the wool, unable to reach the leather straps around her wrists. “How dare you bind me like this. Put me down. Now!”
Kenneth raised a thick, dark eyebrow. “On yer feet? In this mud? Bare as ye are beneath that blanket?” His mouth curved slightly yet his eyes were steely, with no hint of amusement. “Nay, lass. Ye’re me prisoner until I learn more about you and satisfy myself that ye’re nae a spy.”
“No?” she repeated, disbelief breaking through her shock. “You cannot simply—”
“I can,” he said, utterly unbothered by her fury. “And I am.”
She struggled to pull away from him again, only to collide with his unyielding chest. He did not shift. Not an inch. She might as well have tried to dislodge a mountainside.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, wriggling to gain space between them. “Must you sit so… so damned casually?”
“I’m sitting as I always dae.” He adjusted the reins with a fluid roll of his shoulders that brought her even closer. “It’s you that’s flailing about like a hen who’s lost her head.”
Her indignation burned hotter than the embarrassment prickling her skin. She tried to lean forward, away from him, but the horse jolted suddenly, and she nearly pitched sideways.
Kenneth tightened his hold at once, his forearm banding across her middle, drawing her securely back against him.
“Ye see?” His breath brushed her ear. “Ye’d be on the ground if I let ye go.”
“That is not…this is not…” Words tangled hopelessly on her tongue, partly from indignation, partly from the awareness of his hard body pressed along the length of hers. No man had ever held her so closely.
Her breath hitched in her throat.
“Ye ken the name I am called,” he said simply. Not boastful. Not ashamed. Simply stating a truth.
“I believe many in Scotland know you as the Brute of Sleat,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Mayhap even some in England. You’re feared.”
“Is that so?” he murmured, unreadable.
“Yes,” Her voice trembled with cold and something else she could not name. Not fear. Excitement? Anticipation? “And now I… I… find myself tied to you, wearing scarcely more than my shift, on a horse, in the middle of nowhere.”
“Ye forgot soaking wet and half frozen,” he added. “That’s an important part of the story.”
She glared at him. But save for a tiny flicker at the corner of his wide mouth – which could have been amusement – there was no response. He was impervious to her ire.
He faced forward, guiding the horse with the ease of a man born to command beast and land alike. The plaid around her tightened slightly as he adjusted it, protecting her from the icy wind.
“We ride fer Duntulm.” He urged the horse forward and their pace increased. “Once there, ye and I will speak together and ye will tell me exactly who ye are, where ye’ve come from, and just what business ye had on a ship with no colors sailing in me waters.”
Selene swallowed hard, raising her tethered hands to clutch her mother’s necklace at her throat. By some miracle it had survived her near murder and near drowning and was still in its place. A comfort, always.
But nothing could still her awareness of the steadiness, the strength, the unsettling calm of the powerful man holding her. And nothing could still the undeniable crackle of tension that flickered between them like the remnants of lightning after a storm.
Indeed. He was her enemy.
They were enemies who had been pressed entirely too close together.
And, despite every grain of commonsense in Selene’s body telling her to beware, she was forced to acknowledge that between them was the faintest spark of something else. Something she’d never felt before, something she did not understand.
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