Prologue

He watched the beautiful woman beside him as she opened her mouth to speak her vows.

“Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone…”

She was perfect to look at, a stunning highland lass with blonde chestnut hair that caught in the low light of the candles all around them. Her skin was silky and flushed from nervousness. Any laird alive would be pleased to stand in his place. He watched her mouth form the words of the holy vow, but the sound of it flowed over him without staying, as smooth as water.

“I give ye my body, that we two may be one…”

He knew he should feel something, that he should be caught in the holy mystery of this moment. Yet… he felt nothing.

“I give ye my spirit, ’til our life shall be done…”

He couldn’t bear the thought of this lovely lady, whose eyes reminded him of summer cornflowers, for whom he couldn’t muster even a smidgeon of desire.

Instead, his gaze drifted over her shoulder, snagging on the face of the bridal maid who stood behind her. For a moment, his breath stuttered in his chest. Her eyes were a striking blue, like the deep waters of a loch on the sunniest of days. He longed to dive into them, to plumb their depths, believing that somehow her eyes would take him away from this moment and release him from the terror he felt climbing inside him.

“Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone…”

Her face was taut with an expression he couldn’t quite read, but then he could never completely read her face. Even now she was still a mystery, she stymied him at every turn. When he looked at her, all he could think of was how beautiful she was. She had the kind of beauty that inspired utter reverence as if she were the holy mother filling him with fear, want, and awe. It was right, he thought dazedly, to look at her in the little Kirk, surrounded by the holy glow of the candles, looking like a fearsome and wonderful angel.

“Laird Murray? Didnae ye hear me?”

A voice drew him back to the present. The priest looked at him significantly, and his future wife, with an expectant expression.

“Yer vow,” his brother reminded him, nudging him on the shoulder. It was a shock to realize he was still standing upon the altar, and not simply someplace else with the beautiful woman he so admired. He remembered that now he must speak. It was his duty to speak; his clan depended upon it, the safety of the blue-eyed maiden depended upon it.

“Forgive me, father,” his voice suddenly hoarse. “Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone…”

His voice trailed away as once again his eyes settled upon the maid’s face. She frowned slightly as if he were a frustrating puzzle or an opponent she could not quite size up. He felt exposed in that annoyed, combative glance, with her strong eyes and powerful will—a will he could not break but wanted to test. Oh, how he wanted to test it for all his days!

“My laird?” the priest prompted him, but he found he could not speak. All he could do was stare into her eyes. Was it his imagination, or did he notice glassiness in those pupils, as if they were filled with tears? The Laird of Clan Murray, albeit the most fearsome warrior of the highlands and Robert de Brus’ most powerful friend, was terrified at that moment. He found himself praying to the heavens, unable to form coherent sentences.

Oh, lady of light and all the saints above, help me. Can I marry her sister and live with myself? What shall I do?

When he looked into her eyes he knew.

Chapter One

Three days earlier.

“He wants me to do what now?” Scott exclaimed, slamming the missive down upon the great oak desk.

“Marry,” Magnus smiled, leaning back in his chair in the study. “Aye, ye cannae be too surprised about it, brother.”

“I cannae?” Scott raised his eyebrows and glared at his younger brother.

“The MacNabs need to be stopped, and the Menzies need the lend of your mighty strength,” Magnus shrugged in that typical way he always had. He smirked and waggled his eyebrows at Scott. “If ye didnae want to be thought of as the mighty right hand of Robert de Brus, then ye shouldnae have spent so much time in battle.”

“Battle is where I am useful,” Scott said staunchly, staring down at the hastily penned missive from his dearest friend in the Great Cause, Robert. When Robert had asked Clan Murray to join his cause, Scott hadn’t a second thought about it. He had gone into battle with his dirk ready and his axe swinging, but he had never imagined that Robert would find more use for him than just the throes of war. Scott wrinkled his nose distastefully. “This is… politics.”

“Aye, that it is,” Magnus nodded sagely. “John Balliol is a lucky man to have the support of the MacNabs. Ye ken how fearsome they can be.”

“Aye, I ken,” Scott muttered, remembering how he had faced Laird MacNab in battle the year before. He was not a warrior to be underestimated.

“And ye will ken how Laird Menzies didnae have sons,” Magnus continued. “Only lasses.”

Scott winced.

“Lasses willnae be enough to deal with MacNab,” he said quietly.

“Aye, which is where ye come in,” Magnus grinned, leaning forward. “Menzies has supported Robert’s claim to the throne since he was a lad. They kent him that long, ye see. For MacNab to start attacking their wee farms is a clearer attack on Robert as I never did see.”

“Ye think it’s Balliol behind it?” Scott asked shrewdly. “That he tries to discredit Robert’s claim by removing his supporters?”

Magnus spread his hands wide. “I cannae think why else Robert would suggest marrying ye to a Menzies lass.”

“Aye,” Scott leaned back in his great chair and sighed heavily. “I suppose ye must be right.”

“Aye, dinnae look so shocked, brother mine!” Magnus laughed. “’Tis kent to happen from time to time.”

Scott smiled knowingly. Of course, Magnus was right—he was the one of the three Murray brothers who had a head for politics. He was the one who advised Robert de Brus on how best to marshal political support, for which Robert was the hammer, fighting the opposition on the battlefield. Between them, they had established Clan Murray as one of the fiercest and most politically powerful in the Highlands. It did not mean they were invincible, though.

“It says here it is to be Alba,” Scott frowned at the paper. “Which one is she?”

“The older, the finer one,” Magnus said. “Delicate wee thing, pretty as if made from bone china.”

Scott remembered her and flinched.

“And he thinks such a lass will be suitable for me?” Scott exclaimed, gesturing at his massive physique. “I’d break the wee thing!”

“Aye, such a lass might be more suited for Tate,” Magnus smirked. Tate was the youngest of the Murray brothers. Taken to travel, they had not seen him at Castle Murray in over a year. “But the poor lad isnae the laird here.”

“I may be now,” Scott warned Magnus. “But we both ken who will be one day.”

Magnus’ face filled with thunder. “Ye cannae say such things,” he said furiously, eyes flashing. “Isnae for mysel, brother! Is for yer bairns, for yer son!”

“I have nae son.” Scott’s voice was harsher than usual. “I willnae ever have a son.”

Magnus looked at him pityingly for a long moment. “He was a bonny lad,” Magnus said softly. “God rest him.”

Scott could not accept his brother’s pity and quickly turned away, staring into the fire as he thought about all he had lost. His beautiful wife, Fenella, so ripe and lovely with child, then their stillborn boy and his wife dead in their marriage bed—his future ripped away in one fell swoop. He had kissed her cold forehead and every one of his dear son’s tiny blue toes before burying them both with his heart and vowing never to take another wife.

“Never again,” Scott said, his voice ragged with emotion. “I cannae do that to another lass, brother.”

“Ye didnae do a thing,” Magnus leaned forward, his eyes earnest. “It was the will of God, brother, nae one else’s.”

Scott wished he could believe him, but the guilt of their deaths weighed heavily upon him. Scott knew it could only be his fault. After all, if he had not been so hungry and greedy for an heir, a son to raise up as a warrior like himself and to take the mantle of Clan Murray when he was gone, then Fenella would have lived.

“’Twas my greed,” Scott said slowly. “’Twas my sin that killed them both.”

Magnus opened his mouth to argue but at that moment a scout appeared, hasting into the study and breathing heavily.

“Laird, there are commotions on the border,” the scout gasped. “Menzies and MacNabs!”

“Shall we send someone?” Magnus asked.

“Dinnae bother, brother,” Scott said, standing up and reaching for his axe. “I am in the mood for battle.”

“Holy mother, save us all,” Magnus muttered, reaching for his own helmet.

“But Da, I dinnae want to marry him!”

Evelyn rummaged through the trunk at the bottom of her and her sister Alba’s bed, looking for her bonnet. She moved with the utmost discretion, afraid of disturbing the fight going on between Alba and her father in the next room, but every move she made seemed amplified against the stone walls of Fort Menzies.

“Alba, my hen, it isnae as if we have a choice!” her father said, his exasperation almost tangible through the closed door. “We cannae protect ourselves alone, ye ken that?”

Evelyn winced. She longed to protect her family, to be the one who could defend them, but she was a woman. No matter how strong her skills with a blade or a bow, or how fast she could ride, no one would ever consider her a worthy protector of her home and her loved ones. Which is why she was forced to do what she intended.

Carefully, she pulled the bonnet cap from the trunk and piled her hair up inside it. With her hair hidden away and a tartan scarf pulled across her face, dressed in the same short trousers with a great cloak of plaid wrapped around her and the belt with her dirk slung about her waist, she could pass well enough for a young warrior of her clan. It was the only thing she could really do to offer protection to her family, even if it meant breaking the rules in ways that were decidedly not allowed.

“But he’s a beast, Da!” Alba exclaimed in the other room. “Laird Scott Murray isnae a man, he’s an animal!”

“On the field that may be true, hen, but he is made of man, I can assure ye, like none else!”

“What of the rumors?” Alba demanded. “They say he killed his own wife!”

“Now hush!” her father commanded loudly. “How can ye repeat such twitterings, lass? That he is strong and fierce is good enough for me! Ye ken we have need of such a lad around here.”

Again, Evelyn flinched and rolled her eyes. If only her father could see all the ways she was trying and succeeding to be just as good as any man would have been.

“I willnae do it,” Alba said staunchly.

“Ye will do what is asked of ye without complaint,” her father snapped in return. “I cannae rely on anyone else, can I? Nae laird in his good sense will marry yer sister!”

“She isnae so bad,” Alba protested, and Evelyn’s heart warmed to her sister’s defence of her.

“Nae so bad?” Her father laughed in frustration. “My hen, yer sister cannae be controlled by any man, and I willnae have the clans of Scotland telling far and wide that Laird Menzies has raised a bairn nae fit for good company! Ye ken the shame that would come!”

Evelyn only scowled at that as she cinched the belt around her waist. She hated how often her father brought up the shame she would bring the family with her wayward ideas, her dislike of tradition, and her desire to fight, lead, and ride. She simply wanted to be loved and appreciated by her family whilst doing her best to keep them safe.

“Evelyn is nae shame to ye, Da,” Alba said quietly. “She loves ye dearly, ye ken?”

Evelyn took a great shuddering breath and felt tears prick behind her eyes. Despite the fact that she and Alba could not be more different, Alba always stood by her side against her father.

“Aye, I do,” Laira Menzies sighed heavily. “I only wish yer mother were alive. She would ken what to do with the lass.”

Evelyn’s heart clenched at the sadness in her father’s tone, and she took a few steadying breaths, feeling her own melancholy threatening to overtake her.

Her dear mother had died in a village skirmish on their border when both girls were still young. She had given her life to protect them, and both Evelyn and Alba had nightmares about it, even to the present day. When Evelyn closed her eyes, she could sometimes see it—the fires in the village, the loud clash of swords, and Alba’s screams. In different ways, they had dealt with the loss of their mother in such a violent manner. Whilst Alba had diverted her fears and worries into caring for Evelyn and raising her, the latter had diverted her own anxiety into learning how to fight. She wanted to ensure that she would never, ever be in such a position again. She would never be defenseless and she would never let anything happen to her family, not ever again.

“I dinnae understand why she cannae be more like ye,” her father continued. Evelyn started at the pain of it. No matter how many times she’d heard this sentiment for most of her life, it never hurt as much as when her father spoke it.

“Evie tries, Da,” Alba said earnestly. “She was always going to be what she is now.”

Alba was everything an eldest daughter should be; she was beautiful, elegant, and mannerly whilst still being homey and kind. She had slipped perfectly into the role of Lady of Fort Menzies in their mother’s absence. She ran her father’s household, and all their tenants and clanspeople loved her dearly. Evelyn could never inspire that kind of devotion. She was far too fond of riding in the woods instead of making soap with the clanswomen. Yet, despite Alba’s daily frustration with Evelyn’s lack of interest in womanly pursuits, she always protected her from their father’s disappointment.

“Aye, I ken,” he sighed heavily. “Which is why, my hen, you cannae say ye shall nae marry Laird Murray. It must be, for the good of the family.”

For the good of the family. That had been her father’s motto her entire life. He always saw Evelyn as the daughter who cared nothing for the good of the family, even though she risked her life regularly for them all—not that he knew of it.

“I must go, hen, look after yer sister,” her father called out. “There’s been an attack on our borders, and I must ride out with the men.”

Quietly, Evelyn picked up her own shield, an old one from a soldier friend of her father’s, wincing as it clanked heavily against the trunk. She heard the conversation stop in the next room.

“Is Evelyn in there?” her father asked, and with silent footsteps, Evelyn flung open the door and raced to the stables. She hid in the back, stowing her shield underneath some hay until her father came down and mounted his stallion.

“The MacNabs have nae place on our land!” he bellowed to the clansmen. “We ride!”

They shouted their assent as they saddled up and Evelyn quickly snuck in at the back, mounting her own horse, her face well-hidden. Evelyn reflected as they set off on how ironic it was that her father had always thought she didn’t care enough about the family, and yet here she was, ready to fight and die alongside him.

As the wind whipped around her, Evelyn thought about the secret she kept buried deep beneath her shield, and her hidden face, that whilst she was a lass made for war there was nothing she hoped for more in life than a family of her own. Yet, it was true; who would want to marry and love a lass who had dreams beyond the confines of a castle?

Evelyn told herself not to think of it and instead turned her mind to battle.

Chapter Two

“Who is that?” Scott shouted to Magnus over the heat of battle. MacNab’s soldiers hadn’t been ready for the arrival of Laird Murray and his men; a few had turned tail and run as soon as they saw the Murray brothers dismounting, their eyes full of fire and rage. Laird Menzies’ men were holding their own fair enough, but there was a small lad on the edge of the field of battle near the wooded croft whose skill with a blade put them all to shame.

“I dinnae ken!” Magnus yelled back, turning his blood-flecked face toward the lad. The young man was wrapped up in a tartan scarf, and Scott wondered if he had some kind of deformity that forced him to cover himself. “He might need some help!”

Scott saw that the lad had taken on a MacNab soldier who was about four times his size and, despite his skill, the lad could never hope to defeat such a giant. Scott ran forward with a battle cry, lunging between the giant and the lad, forcing him back against one of the trees in the small woods, quickly disarming him and slamming his own forehead against the head of the soldier, quickly knocking him out. Scott gritted his teeth against the pain before turning to look for the lad, hoping to ensure the young man was alright, but he was met with a sword swinging at his face.

“Jesu!” Scott exclaimed, quickly raising his axe to push the lad back. “What are ye doing, lad? Are ye nae fighting for the Menzies?”

The lad simply stared at him and began fighting him with such nimble quickness that Scott was almost cut down by his sword. Scott was able to hit the boy around the head with the hilt of his sword with only a quick duck and roll, which the young lad had clearly not expected given Scott’s height and weight, and he crumpled to the ground. Scott stood over him, panting heavily and staring in awe at the unconscious lad. Nobody had fought him so fiercely in a long time, not since his own father had trained him in battle. Who on earth is this lad?

“What happened?” Magnus ran up, out of breath.

“The lad near skewered me!” Scott exclaimed, kicking the boy’s sword away, just in case.

“Is that so?” Magnus looked down at him in astonishment. “One of Menzies’ lads, is he nae?”

“Perhaps he has a grudge,” Scott shrugged, rubbing the blood off his forehead.

“Or perhaps he is nae too fond of yer potential wedding,” Magnus frowned thoughtfully. “Or he could be a wee assassin.”

“Dinnae be fooled by his size, brother,” Scott said sternly. “He’s plenty fast, and skilled.”

“Well then, best we bring the lad back tae camp,” Magnus said. “Question him. Work out if he’s just a wee lad with an affection for the lady Alba, or something worse.”

“Aye,” Scott said, watching as Magnus slung the lad over his shoulders and then looked at Scott in amazement. “He dinnae weigh a thing!”

“Well, all the easier tae ride with,” Scott said practically. “Let us be away.”

As they rode the short way back to camp, Scott wondered about the slight boy who was laid astride Magnus’ horse. Where had he learned his skill? Why would Laird Menzies have kept such a warrior a secret? And if the boy wasn’t one of Laird Menzies’ men, why was he on the field of battle, and why was he so angry with Scott? Could it be as Magnus suspected, that the lad was enamored with the young lass he was expected to wed? Scott could see the boy struggling against Magnus’ hold by the time they arrived at the quick camp their men had set up on the edge of Murray land.

“As wriggly as a sprat in a net!” Magnus called, tossing the lad over his shoulder, and striding toward the old barn where the men had built a fire. “Got something to hide!”

Scott groaned inwardly and followed his brother, turning to glare at his men.

“Dinnae bother us,” he said sternly, stepping inside and closing the rickety door beside him. Shafts of moonlight illuminated the barn floor and Magnus dropped the lad on it. He instantly scuttled back until he hit a beam, his eyes sharp and full of fire. Even now, Scott could see the lad was calculating how to get out. He’s nae ordinary lad, that’s for sure.

“What is yer name?” Magnus asked, folding his arms, but the boy remained silent.

“Are ye deformed?” Scott asked abruptly, gesturing to the scarf wrapped tightly around the young man’s face, only revealing his sharp blue eyes. The lad simply glared back at him. Scott felt his patience snap and he reached to tug the scarf away from the boy’s face. “Well, if ye willnae tell us—”

“Nae!” the lad exclaimed, and those small sharp hands gripped Scott’s wrists, scrabbling at him, but Scott was stronger. In a minute he had stepped back holding not only the lad’s face scarf, but his bonnet too. Scott stared down in amazement.

“Holy lady in heaven,” Magnus whispered. “’Tis a lass.”

Scott stared at her. Her chestnut locks curled around her head, her bare face was sharp and guarded. She was beautiful, too, as she glared up at them, breathing heavily like a fox caught in a trap.

“Ye almost killed me!” Scott exclaimed at the lass. “Yer a lass and ye—who in hell are ye?”

The eyes didn’t change despite the unveiling; her blue eyes were so sharp they reminded him of dark early morning skies, lit with the same fire and repulsion as they had been when she nearly ran him through with her sword.

“A lass,” Magnus repeated, shaking his head. “Well, Menzies would never let a lass fight his cause.”

“A spy then,” Scott said grimly. “Or an assassin.”

“A poor assassin,” Magnus said. “Ye are still alive.”

“Was a close thing,” Scott muttered, kneeling to stare at the lass. “Come lass, ye must ken we cannae harm ye now. Tell us who ye are.”

She said nothing, merely raised her chin, staring contemptuously.

“We could make ye talk,” Magnus said sternly.

“Aye,” Scott said, quickly realising the progress of Magnus’ thoughts. Of course, they would never intend to harm a lass, but she didn’t need to know that. A few threats here and there wouldn’t hurt. “I could give ye to my men. See what they make of ye.”

He expected her eyes to show fear, but they didn’t. Instead, her hand flashed to her belt, and suddenly she was on her feet, a dirk in her hand.

“Let me go,” she said. Scott was astounded to hear her voice. She didn’t sound like the other lasses he’d met, whose voices were soft and tender to match their lovely features. This woman’s voice was sharp and fierce as if she was used to issuing orders.

“Now, now,” Magnus said quickly, spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture, deliberately giving Scott time to circle to the right and when her eyes darted to Magnus’ hands, he sprang forward to grasp her wrist, twisting it upward and releasing the dirk. He expected her to cry out and fall back again, but instead, a firm kick met his knee, as if she intended to engage him hand-to-hand.

“Ye wee minx!” Scott growled, steadying himself and quickly kicking her feet out from under her in retaliation, dropping her to the floor and stepping back. “How dare ye!”

“Let me go!” the lass shouted, glaring up at him from the floor. He felt a growing exasperation with her boldness and commanding nature.

“Lasses dinnae scream at me like harpies,” Scott said coldly, towering over her.

“Aye?” the lass returned, raising one amber eyebrow. “Didnae get a good look at ye, did they?”

Magnus snorted with laughter behind him while Scott growled.

“Quiet yer tongue!” he demanded, stepping closer, expecting her to recoil. “Or I shall take it from ye!”

“I’d like to see ye try!” she scowled back. “Ye great brute!”

Scott looked down at her, trying to ignore the feelings that were building up in his chest. Scott stood over six feet tall, was broad and strong, and was well aware of his reputation both on and off the battlefield. He was used to lasses looking at him with fear and intrigue, not glaring up at him with fire in their eyes like her. He could not help it. His lower regions tingled with unsettling, untimely desire.

“Brother,” Magnus pulled him away from her, dropping his voice to a low tone. “Seduce the lass.”

“Ye cannot be in earnest,” Scott hissed at his brother. “She is more monster than lass!”

“Oh, aye, I’m sure,” Magnus rolled his eyes and looked his brother up and down, clearly seeing the way Scott’s body betrayed him against his will.

“’Tis only the heat of battle,” Scott said gruffly.

“Aye, for sure,” Magnus smirked. “But she may still be armed.”

“And ye wish me to unclothe the lass?” Scott exclaimed, mentally denying that the thought of her unrobed in his bed inflamed him entirely.

“I wish ye to do what ye can,” Magnus said, his gaze hardening. “We need tae ken who she is. There has nary been a lass who willnae lie with you, brother. Put it to good use.”

Scott scowled at his brother, clapping him on the shoulder as the latter turned to exit the barn, leaving them alone. Scott rubbed a hand over his face and stared up at the ceiling. He was not the type of man who would take a lass against her will; he had never been that kind of man. Magnus was right; he never struggled to find a bonny lass to warm his bed on a cold night, but this was different. This was a lass who seemed she would sooner die than lie with him.

Scott sighed. He turned back to look at her. She glared at him and yet her eyes were watchful. If she had been a wild dog, her hackles would have been raised. Perhaps that is how to approach her, Scott thought, as if she were a wild horse.

Violence would only get him kicked in the shins and it was clear that was exactly what this soldier lass expected. He would have to try tenderness. Scott slowly unbuckled his belt, his weapons still attached and dropped it outside the door along with her own dirk. He closed the door and showed her his empty hands.

“What are ye doing?” she asked, sounding wary for the first time since she had spoken.

“I am unarmed,” he said simply, walking at a slow pace as he would approach a nervous mare.

“Then ye are a fool,” she scorned, but there was a deep furrow between her brows as if his behavior was entirely beyond her understanding.

“Perhaps,” he said calmly. He stood about a foot away from where she sat on the floor, still wreathed in her cloak. Magnus was right; she may still be armed, and he might still be at great risk from her. He needed to find a way to check, but he knew if he forced her she would fight like a rabid dog. “Will ye nae stand up and face me?”

It was the right decision. The lass scowled but immediately stood to her feet.

“I faced ye on the field of battle, and I’ll face ye here!” she spat, eyeing him. Scott slowly lifted his hand but held it away, determined not to force his touch. The lass is like a wild horse, he told himself firmly. Be gentle, slow, and keep your hands visible, he told himself.

“Will ye dare to let me touch ye?” Scott said quietly.

“Why would I?” she asked with narrowed eyes.

“I have shown ye I am unarmed,” he said quietly. Her eyes widened at his gentle tone. “Will ye not show me the same grace?”

She stared at him for a long moment and then nodded, her chin outthrust stubbornly.

“Alright,” she said. “Ye can touch me, little good may it do ye.”

Scott nodded and slowly extended his hand to the belt at her waist, worn like all soldiers over her cloak and trousers. He slowly unbuckled it and tossed it aside, knowing from its weight that it held no other weapons. It was a strangely alluring act, this gentle undressing of a lass who had been so vicious. He could tell from her incessantly watchful stare that she thought of it as nothing more than a standoff between two soldiers—a way of showing her worth and mettle. Yet, as she sought to prove herself masculine, he could not help but see all that was feminine about her. Slowly, making sure she could see his hands, he raised his fingers to the brooch at her shoulder, unclipping it so the cloak that covered her fell loose to the ground.

There she was, suddenly more beautiful than anything he had ever seen before. Desire thrummed through him. He wondered distantly if he would ever feel this kind of desire again once he was married to the Menzies lass. He wondered what would happen if he moved his fingers to gently cup the odd lass’s cheek and kiss her with all the intensity of his want. Would she kick him as she had done before? Would she melt into his touch, or would she pull his hair, curse him, and scream like a banshee?

“What?” she demanded, her voice wavering slightly. Scott noticed she had not flinched from his touch where his hand rested on her exposed collarbone. Perhaps she was trying to prove herself, or perhaps it was something else.

“Ye are… strange,” he whispered, “in yer man’s shirt and trews.”

“Yer nae the first man tae call me strange,” she struggled to maintain her scornful tone, but never removed herself from his touch. Her blue eyes never left his face. “So, I am unarmed. Are ye satisfied?”

Scott found he could not stop staring at her lips. Her defiance was like wine in his blood, making him dizzy with want, and suddenly he could no longer control himself. Whatever she might do, he was willing to risk. His want had taken over his mind and he could not turn back.

“Nae,” he whispered, leaning forward to capture her lips with his.

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Introduction

The year is 1301. Scotland is embroiled in a war of independence against the English. It’s been five years since the exile of Toom Tabard, the Scottish king; three since the rebels’ defeat in the Battle of Falkirk under Wallace; nearly one since the resignation of Robert the Bruce, heir to the throne, as Guardian of Scotland. His rival, John Comyn, has just followed in his wake.

King Edward I is painting the Lowlands red with blood, and the magnates are scrambling to keep the country undivided under his thumb. The prospect of civil war grows with each day that passes, casting a long shadow over the country and its people.

The dream of an independent united Scotland lives on in Robert the Bruce, but he cannot act alone. Cooperation among the Highlanders is of the essence. First, they need to agree to peace amongst themselves. A summit in Fifeshire has been called in his name, inviting clans from far and wide to put an end to their quarrels and form new productive alliances.

Many lairds are in attendance, along with their numerous beautiful daughters. Their agendas are even more plentiful, for where one man sees a chance for peace, another sees opportunity, gain, wealth, and power at any cost.

Prologue

1301, The Herbride Sea

Sometime before dawn.

By the time Ivy came to consciousness, her wrists were so raw from the ropes that bound her to the mizzenmast she no longer cared about the cold. Her trust in the elements was misplaced and she knew it—the air was biting that night, and people had died of frost for less. Her breath came out in uneven puffs of air, clearer than the smoke rising from the torches dotting the deck of her father’s cog.

At least he had posted a guard to watch over her, as any merchant might do with their chattel. The man with the clinking hauberk had yet to turn around. Ivy watched through wet tendrils of hair as he stalked the stern, stopping only to cast a long look at the horizonless sea between the Isle of Skye and the mainland. Ivy’s gaze drifted to the unreadable stars overhead. There was no telling how long it would be until they reached Glasgow and then Fifeshire where her buyer and new master awaited.

Raucous laughter sounded from the hold, and Ivy flinched, startled. Her head knocked painfully against the mast and she hissed involuntarily, drawing the attention of the guard. The deck creaked beneath him as he turned around, a hand hovering over the hilt of his short sword.

“Has my father forbidden ye from speaking to me?” she rasped, squinting against the darkness. She wriggled forward as far as her bindings would allow, and the exercise roused her fear. “He’ll have words for ye and more if I die afore we reach our journey’s end. I’ll make certain I do die if ye dinnae speak.”

Ivy swore she could hear the guard grind his teeth as he stood frozen. “I have my orders,” he muttered after a while, turning his back to her.

She swallowed hard, and her throat burned. “Orders to kill me or to hold yer tongue? It matters not; ye’ve broken yer vow to him now,” she noted. “I beg of ye, listen to me.”

“What is it ye want?”

“I want—” She cut herself off with an involuntary whimper. She most wanted to go home, but she would settle for being out of the cold and changed into a dry smock and kirtle. “Why cannae I travel below with the rest of ye? I want a meal. I want water. I want to nae be treated like any other prisoner.”

“Ye’ll find freedom aplenty ashore.”

The man took a deep breath and turned to face her. In the torchlight, he revealed himself to be a stranger. Before the fighting, Ivy had known most of her father’s men by name. Now their names were long forgotten, turned into freemen and freemen’s sons who wore the faces of knights. This one was younger than most, no older than four and ten.

“I ken my da’s heart—his good heart—and I ken he didnae ask for me to suffer,” she lied. “Please, untie me and I willnae say a word to any man about it. I only mean to walk a bit, and look, and wait.”

The boy’s face frowned in hesitation, but his eyes were heavy with fright. She knew that expression from the looking glass, and she especially knew what it meant.

Slowly, he shook his head. “I cannae do that, me lady,” he whispered, “but I can ask about a meal for ye,” he added more begrudgingly.

It was something at least. “Do it,” she said softly, trying not to scare him, “and ye will be the kindest man to have ever lived. I kent ye to be of gentle nature.”

Sparing one last look at the sea, the boy turned on his heel and marched toward the bow.

Sagging against the mast, Ivy felt the first tears run down her cheek. Staring straight ahead, she rubbed her wrists together behind the mast, testing the rope’s slack. Whoever had tied the knot did not intend for her to flee for they knew she would try. For what reason she could not fathom; there was little she could do. She had no weapon and could not wield one if she tried. And certainly there was nowhere to run but into the sea.

“Into the sea…” she breathed, and her eyes rounded in dread, but also in sudden realization.

All was quiet on deck; the boatswain likely gone to eat. The guard had dipped into the hold and faded from view. There were no other ships as far as the eye could see, but her hands kept working against the rope anyway. Her knees grazed painfully against the boards beneath her as she struggled, her heart hammering in her chest. If she could only slip through this net, there would be a chance—perhaps not for life, but certainly for freedom.

She forced the base of her palm into the knot and whimpered at the thought of facing the bitter end.

There was a reason she had denied the nunnery despite her mother’s urging. There was a reason she had dreamed of peace in a lifetime of war. Ivy MacLeod believed she was meant for greater things, the greatest things in fact, and it was better her dreams die with her than she without them.

Her hand slipped free of the ropes all of a sudden, ripping the skin from her thumb and forefinger.

She let out a cry of both relief and pain, and promptly bit her lip. God’s teeth, nothing had hurt worse in her life. She dared not look down at her hand. The fire racing up her arm was proof enough of her victory. Her other hand carefully slipped the loop; she was free.

Her knees buckled beneath her as she tried to stand, and she fell forward onto her chest, grazing her chin against the deck, providing one more scar to layer over the others she was accumulating. Darting her gaze upward, she was relieved to see that nothing had moved at the other end of the cog—not the guards, nor God.

The sails whipped menacingly against the wind above her. A squall was brewing, or perhaps something worse. If she didn’t act soon, they would drag her down into the hold to weather the storm and she would come out of it an unwilling married woman.

Wiping the blood from her chin, she pressed herself against the mizzenmast. Her hand curled around it, leaving blood ingrained in the wood. They would find it in the morning, but she would be long gone. She had to be gone.

With uneven steps, she staggered her way to the stern. The waters were dark and inviting below, reflecting the heavy light of the moon. Had the sea always seemed so pleasant a canvas? If so, she could not remember but sent up a prayer of gratitude at its invitation.

Perhaps she could swim to safety. Perhaps she would die. She did not spend time considering her options; she simply sought freedom.
Hoisting a leg over the side of the ship, her heart lurched in her chest. Her long ashen hair blew westward, but she planned to jump to the east toward the sun.

Her desperation and misery had been born in fire. With water, she would smother it for good.

The last thing she saw before she jumped from the ship into the sea were her father’s colors flying above her in the inky sky.

Chapter One

1301, Dunvegan Castle, Isle of Skye
Eight hours earlier.

The fire roared in the fireplace, and Ivy was transfixed by its flames lapping against the stone. She had despised the keep when they first took up residence within it, so different it was from the MacLeod croft of her girlhood. Gone was the burn at the bottom of the farmlands where the children would bathe. Gone were the fields of heather where she watched the knights riding through the glen. Gone were her mother and brother too, who had been born there, and who had died there in the fire set by Comyn’s allies while her father was away.

There was not a moment’s peace to be had in Dunvegan. The gates to the keep were forever open to more cavaliers, more tinkers, more magnates—more bloodshed. She thought how strange it was that she would now trade forever and a day for one more night in this noise-plagued burgh.

Her attendants flitted in and out of the room packing her trunks, and she directed them absently. She had no care for her garments, no care for anything at all but the fire to warm her. So, when they asked where she was going and what she thought best to take with her, she offered them the same answer she had been giving them all afternoon.

“Father has said nae a thing to me about my new home, only that it is far from here on the mainland and safe.” She knew at least one of those things to have been a lie: there was nowhere safe in Scotland anymore.

With a gentle sigh, she rose from the edge of her canopied bed and walked toward the hearth. There, she plucked a small sculpture from the mantle, a wooden carving in the shape of a wolf. Her brother had been no fine craftsman before his death, but Ivy smiled affectionately as she ran her thumb over the uneven notches in the walnut.

“Seems more a cow to my eye,” she remarked upon receiving it some six years ago, “though I suppose I should thank ye for the thought.”

“Braw, Da will be pleased,” her brother had replied, “to ken ye have manners, and because a cow is more fitting for a MacLeod lass—especially ye, sister.”

Ivy hadn’t asked what he had meant, and she suspected it was for the best. The sweetness of her memories was all she had left of Peter.

“Och, and this cow,” she grumbled under her breath.

One of the girls looked up at her with curious, rounded eyes, and Ivy dismissed her with a smile. “I shall take this with me,” she said, handing the girl the sculpted figure. “Wrap it safely in a wimple as I should despise for it to break.” She nodded to the other girls and made her way back to the bed. “Whatever ye cannae pack ye may keep for yersels, but dinnae wear anything of mine before Sir Gavin, or trouble will find ye.”

The girls gleefully returned to their work. By the time they were done and the sun had ticked to the west, someone rapped on the door. Ivy didn’t bother turning around. She knew who it would be, and the fire needed stoking.

One by one the girls shot to their feet and bowed, leaving Ivy’s packed trunks behind them. The room was so still she could hear the song of the blackcap warblers outside. Her father’s call was not nearly as sweet as theirs when he decided to speak.

“Out,” he ordered, and Ivy’s maids were quick to comply.

Her father shut the door behind them, and its whine made Ivy’s skin prickle with gooseflesh. Still, she sat patiently waiting for him on the edge of her bed, having averted her eyes from the flames to the soft linen of her gown. Any sudden movement in his presence could spell her ruin.

Her father prowled toward her slowly, walking the length of her bed and coming to loom over her. Like a veritable animal, his every step was calculated and measured, every intake of breath filled with purpose. She supposed that was how he’d survived as Comyn’s prisoner for all those years at Falkirk and more. It didn’t mean she admired him, and it certainly didn’t mean she liked speaking with him. She stifled a smile at the thought that it was a chore she would not have to suffer for much longer.

He pinched the edge of her veil and slowly ran the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. As he observed her, she only allowed herself to look at his thick hairy fingers. There was muck under his nails, though she knew it was more likely dried blood, and she wondered to whom it belonged. But all questions pertaining to her father were best left unanswered.

“Ye will take this off when we land and plait yer hair like the Highland lasses,” he said coolly.

Ivy clenched her jaw and nodded. There was no point in telling her father that she didn’t know how to plait her hair. His order wasn’t about plaits anyway; it was about making his daughter look desirable. For whom, she did not know.

With a weary grunt, her father kneeled before her. Ivy almost thought she was dreaming. Her father had kneeled for no man but their exiled king and Robert the Bruce; never for a woman.

Looking into his countenance, her eyes welled with tears. Her father looked so much like Peter with his strong nose and brow, only war-hardened and two decades older, poisoned by his own cruelty. His eyes were completely different from Peter’s because they were so much like her own, an amber shade and utterly distrusting even as he looked his own flesh and blood in the face.

“My bairn,” he sighed, cupping her face with his hands like she was not a woman of nine and ten but a girl of seven, “look into yer father’s eyes and see yerself as he sees ye.” For the first time in what felt like years, his lips curled into a smile. “Ye are reborn this day, daughter of mine. As a woman, as a daughter of Scotland and a MacLeod, do ye feel the hands of change as I feel them wrap around us?”

He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, and she wanted desperately to shrug it off. To her, it was known as a great instrument of pain. Instead, she leveled her gaze at her father and bit her lip.

“I desire to ken where ye are taking me, Father.”

His fingers dug into her skin, but his face showed none of his typical disdain. He had grown too apt at hiding it over the years before he lost his temper, but Ivy knew. She always knew. Rocking back on the heels of his boots, her father stood up straight. His aketon was quilted with scarlet linen, and all she could see was red before her, a bad omen that portended ill.

“Ye ken we are at war, bairn.” He waited for an answer as though he doubted it, and she nodded to appease him. “Robert the Bruce has seen fit to bestow upon us—upon ye—the greatest of honors. An invitation, bairn. There’s to be a clansmeet in Fife, where the greatest warriors over the country will convene to do what is right.”

Ivy’s face dipped into a frown before she could temper it. “And what is right, Father?” she asked only to hear him speak it aloud.

He seized her chin with his thumb and forefinger, angling her head so as to look up at him. “To unite as one, Ivy, and pave the way for freedom as Robert sees it. He wishes the clans to meet and follow him into war. He wishes it, and we will make it so.” He thumbed her bottom lip. “I will play my part on the battlefield, and ye will play yers by selecting a husband worthy of ye.”

It took all of one second for Ivy’s stomach to turn over on itself. She had forever known this day would come. There had been a time she had dreamed of marriage because it meant escaping her father’s clutches for good. But the way he presented this “honor” from Robert the Bruce, it did not sound like a dream, nor like freedom.

She was a pawn in his games, and this was his final move.

She bit back the bile in her throat and closed her eyes. “Ye’re selling me off to the highest bidder,” she whispered, unable to voice the full truth of the matter. There is a price on my maidenhead, and ye wish to see who will vie for it the most. “Is there nae price too high to please yer would-be king?”

The flat of his hand came quick and hard against her cheek. She reeled back, clutching her face with her own hand, but it did nothing to soothe the physical pain or the hurt within her.

Her father tittered and ripped the veil from her head. “I would trade a thousand daughters to please him; never doubt that.” He stalked over to the hearth and cast the cloth in the fire. “Dinnae call me yer enemy, bairn—nae when I toil night and day for yer happiness. In Fife, ye’ll have yer pick of the strongest, richest men in all of Scotland. There are worse fates for a woman yer age to marry into a clan of power, and ye ken ‘tis true.”

“I ken naething at all.” She bit her lip to stop from breaking. “Naw—I spoke a lie. I ken one thing: I willnae be married to a man I dinnae ken! That I dinnae trust!”

Ivy scurried back pre-emptively on the bed, but her father didn’t move. She wished with all her heart that she could understand him, or God willing, anticipate his next blow. It was a mistake to challenge him, but he knew it, too. He had made the mistake of striking her across the face one too many times, and the burgh always fell pregnant with rumors of his tyranny toward her in the aftermath of his lashings. He had learned eventually and spared her the rod, taking his anger out on Ivy’s favored servants instead.

She cast a rueful look toward the door where her attendants were most certainly listening in. If he meant to send her away, there would be no one to save them from her father’s wrath in her stead.

When she looked around, her father had turned his back to her, his fingers curled so strongly around the lip of the mantle they had turned white. “Even on this day of hope, ye speak my world into darkness. I pray for ye. Truly, I do.” He pushed himself away from the fire and stormed to the door muttering, “Be ready by sundown.”

If he had cast her one last look, Ivy might have had the good sense to show up at the front of the keep with her effects later that day and say nothing more.

“And I pray for ye, Father,” she shot back, stopping him in his tracks. As quietly as she could, she slid off the bed. If her father heard her, he did not stir. “With the Lord as my witness, I pray ye dinnae regret playing these games of blood and power when Scotland is won and find yerself in an empty keep, with only yer glory for companionship.”

Before the storm of her father’s anger came always a great stretch of silence. In those moments of quiet, Ivy reached into herself, seeking purchase on any strength she had hidden away for safekeeping. After years of violence, that pool was near empty. There was nothing to hold back her pain as her father covered the distance across the room and propelled her back against her waiting trunks.

Her hip collided with the stone floor, sending a sharp jolt up her side, but the pain was nothing compared to the visceral fear she felt as her father grabbed her by the neckline of her dress and yanked her off the floor.

Sir Gavin may have said something before beating her. Or maybe he didn’t. Ivy’s only memories were of birdsong and her fire.

Chapter Two

1301, just off the coast of the Ilse of Mull
The following day.

By the time Blaine’s men had earned their sea legs, they were halfway through their journey to the mainland. He supposed their ineptitude at sailing was partly his fault. His lairdship was far from landlocked, and there were numerous reasons for the recent sea voyages. However, up until three years ago, Blaine was busy fighting Wallace’s war, and the state of MacKinnon’s men had been his father’s burden to bear. Frankly, he was more comfortable with a pike in his hand than he was anywhere else in the world—especially ruling over the men he had once called friends.

Sweeping a glance over the waters, Blaine sheathed the skene he’d been polishing. The day was bright, the weather was fair, and his siblings were quiet for the most part—something for which he was grateful. His sister had charmed the crew out of their superstitions as they broke fast, and his brother had busied himself by assailing them with questions that were arguably more invasive.

When at last Errol reared his ugly head from below deck, Blaine whistled for him to join him by the stern.

Huffing and puffing, Errol came up beside him. “Ach, there’s no land for miles! Are ye certain ye’re not playing some wee trick on me, brother? Luring me out onto open waters so ye can be rid of me for good? I’ll have ye ken, I cannae swim.”

Blaine wrestled with a smile. He didn’t like indulging his brother’s antics at the best of times, but the deck of a ship was hardly the place for a fight. “’Twould be a mighty poor trick, dinnae ye think?” he said, “Trapping mysel with ye, and nowhere to hide?” He leaned over and clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Och, will ye nae wipe that look off yer face? The journey to Fife willnae pass quicker with a jester aboard, I promise ye that.”

Errol hopped away, laughing. He was outfitted like a true warrior before they had taken to the sea, but he had quickly done away with his armor and now paraded about in his chausses, boots, and tunic. Despite his four-and-twenty years on earth he often had all the manners and wisdom of a rock.

“What? Dinnae ye think mighty Bruce can take a joke? Naw, ye’ll be glad to have me by yer side when we meet him.”

“I have met him. Ye ken this.”

“Aye, but ye weren’t a laird then. Ye were a—”

“Aye, what was I?” Blaine interjected, scowling.

Errol smirked, his green eyes glinting. “Naething, brother. Ye were naething at all.”

Blaine looked over his shoulder to make sure the crew was busy. The last thing he needed was for them to think he was as mad as his brother. When he was certain the coast was clear, he cracked a smile and grabbed Errol by the scruff of his shirt.

“I’ll cast ye overboard, ye slippery sod,” he warned laughingly. “Dinnae ye think I willnae because we’re blood.”

“I’d like to see ye try, ye lump,” Errol shot back, twisting himself out of his brother’s hold. He beamed as he straightened himself. “If ye’ve made up yer mind about putting me out of my misery, will ye nae tell me where it is we’re headed? Dead men are particularly braw at keeping all sorts of secrets.”

Blaine leaned back against the ship, crossing his arms over his chest. “Ye ken we’re sailing to Glasgow and then to Fifeshire.”

“I ken where and I ken to whom, but I dinnae ken why.”

Blaine ran a hand over his face. It had taken no small amount of subterfuge and strife to keep the truth from his meddling siblings. As far as Errol knew, they were meeting Bruce and his allies on the mainland to discuss troops. That was part of it, of course. Blaine had one of the finest armies in all of Scotland under his belt, and Robert the Bruce had made clear his intention about recruiting them to the cause. However, there was more to this clansmeet than anyone dared speak, and it involved all of Blaine’s least favorite things. And chief among them: politicking.

Just as Blaine had resolved himself to speak, his sister climbed up from the hold and caught his eye. Hannah’s blonde hair lifted in the wind, and her milky skin dappled in the sun. She looked so much like their mother, even at six and ten with the bloom of youth upon her. She would meet just as grizzly an end if Blaine was not careful in the coming days. Because while Bruce had said he wanted a united Scotland, what he meant was in part that he was looking for wives for his allies. Blaine would watch the whole country burn before he sold his sister off to a man unworthy of her, and so without her knowledge, he planned to drop her off with the nuns in Glasgow.

Shooting Errol a look telling him to keep quiet, he waved his sister over to them. “Good morn to ye, sister,” he said, cupping the back of her head and pressing a kiss to her forehead. When she pulled back, Blaine worried that his guilt was written all over his face and Hannah would see it and know, but Errol was quick to distract her.

“Ye dinnae ever greet me like that,” he teased, feigning disappointment.

Blaine thought to reply and appease him, but something in the water caught his eye instead. Narrowing his gaze over his sister’s shining head, he tried to discern what it was as it bobbed and weaved between the waves. It seemed too strange a color for driftwood, too limp, too… bodily in nature.

“’Tis because he favors me over ye. And who can blame him?” Hannah heaved a sigh and leaned over the side of the ship. “Ye’re too old, as well. Those years between us make all the difference in how insufferable ye are, ye ken.”

“Aye. I look at ye and I ken.”

“Och, I never could have guessed how boring sailing is. If naething else, I thank ye for this most revealing experience, Blaine. And ye ken what’s more boring than sailing?” she lamented.

“Blaine?” Errol suggested with a twinkle in his eye.

“Sailors,” she bantered.

“Will ye nae both be quiet for a moment?” Blaine ordered, racing up to the stern to get a better view. “I could have sworn…” His fingers curled around the gunwale, seeking purchase against the rocking of the vessel. Suddenly, the sun hit the object of his curiosity at just the right angle, and there was no mistaking what he saw next: a pallid face washed over by water, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. There was nothing he could discern beyond that—nothing he needed to either.

There was a body in the water.

Like two eager pups, his siblings followed after him. Blaine knew only from the pattering of their feet.

“Do ye think he’s seen something?” Errol asked Hannah.

“I think he thinks he has,” Hannah answered. She leaned forward over the side of the boat, and Blaine quickly put an arm out to stop her from falling. “Look!” she cried. “I see it! I do! ‘Tis a woman,” she gasped. “There’s a woman in the water!”

“Ye’re fibbing,” Blaine said, but he had thought much the same himself. He clucked his tongue and turned his sister around by the shoulders, remembering himself. “Ye shouldnae look, Hannah! Get down in the hold with the others—”

“Ach, poor lassie must have drowned.” Errol sighed.

“Errol, dinnae say that!” Hannah snapped back. She whipped back around, slippery as an eel, dirtying her gown against the sea-stained wood of the bulwark. “Och, ye must help her, brother! Willnae ye help her? Please!”

Blaine shook his head, looking out over the waters. “Ye dinnae ken ‘tis a woman. More like ‘tis the body of a fallen fighter, and we cannae say for whom the wretch took up arms.” Blaine steeled himself as the body came back into view, drifting closer to their ship with each ripple of the waves. “I willnae have a man’s blood on my hands—nae corpse will drag us into war.”

“’Tis nae right to leave her at the mercy of the sea—or him. I dinnae care!” Hannah whimpered, turning back to look for the body. “If ye had died in battle and been chucked in the sea,” she added, uncharacteristically forlorn, “God’s teeth, brother! I pray someone would have fished ye out and brought ye home.”

Blaine had spent a lifetime fending off the most ruthless attackers, but he was powerless to resist his sister’s pouty plea. Clenching his jaw, he hissed his defeat, and his siblings cheered in nervous approval.

“Ye shouldnae take the Lord’s name in vain,” he muttered, divesting himself of his belt, boots, and weapons, his skene and broadsword clattering against the deck. “Learn fast ‘afore we reach the nunnery, or they willnae let me take ye home.” He shrugged off his hauberk and his aketon came with it. All at once, the only thing standing between Blaine and the sea was his fear. “God’s blood…” he whispered.

Hannah was good enough not to call him a hypocrite.

“Be kind enough nae to drown, brother,” Errol muttered as Blaine paced the deck, looking for a point of entry. “I love our clan. Really, I do, but nae enough to rule over it.”

The waves lapped against the side of the ship like hounds hungry for their dinner. The clear, gray-blue color of the waters was misleading, and Blaine knew it all too well. The sea would be colder than the air, and if he was not careful he would lose his life to it and more.

Blaine looked out over the sea, then back at his anxious siblings. He could command one of his men to jump in after the body and they would do it willingly, but it would not be right. A few of his guards were beginning to approach, but he held them off with the palm of his hand.

This was something he should do on his own—if not to prove himself a hero and gladden his sister, then to make his father proud. Too long had he ruled over his family’s clan with all the involvement of a stranger. If the castaway revealed herself to be Blaine’s death, at least he would die with a clear conscience.

Sucking in his breath, he climbed over the bulwark and took pause. He waited just long enough for the sea to calm a tick before launching himself off the gunwale and into the waves below.

The first thing he felt—the first thing and the last—was the biting slap of the water against his skin. For a moment, nothing existed in the world but that pain. It wreathed around him, with the water pressing down on him, keeping him trapped beneath the waves like the cruelest siren call.

It was cold but it was blissful. There was nothing to hear, nothing else to feel, no enemies in hiding, only one that he could fight. He needed to fight or he would lose the battle and die, along with the castaway.

He snapped his eyes open beneath the water, and they stung, but a rush of feeling gave him the courage to glance at the filtered sunlight and swim upwards. For the second time, he broke through the water’s iron plate. As he did, relieved roars erupted from the boat, but he could barely hear them over the sharp intake of his breath. He hadn’t the time to look back, not while his body was on fire with cold. It was enough to know they knew he was alive.

The sun was too bright above him, and he could not remember whether it had always been that way. Blaine pushed his arms out before him, and with all his might, he swam toward the crowning head of the fallen soldier—whoever they were. Within moments, he adapted to the dance of the sea, swimming not against the tide but with it. A head of dark hair called to him like a beacon, dipping above and then beneath the waves with every inhale of breath he took.

However, the sea was not a kind mistress that day. When he was close enough to see the body properly, so close he thought to reach out and touch it, it slipped beneath the waves so swiftly it was as though it had never existed.

Throwing his head back in disbelief, Blaine dared to look back at his siblings on the side of the boat. He could not make out their faces—he could see nothing but their twin heads of blond hair, so much like his own—but he knew that if he did not act quickly, one or the other would be foolish enough to jump in after him. Focused to the exclusion of everything else around him, Blaine thrust his body beneath the waves again, adjusting himself to its sweet cold imprisonment.

That was when he saw her.

Hannah had been right. The castaway was a woman, and she was floating beneath the sea like she belonged there and always had. She looked peaceful with her delicate white face, paler still than the white of her smock—her long, ashen hair floated like a halo around her. She might as well have been an angel, he thought, reaching a hand toward her. She appeared to radiate all the divine power of one and may God smite him for thinking it.

In that watery cage alone with her, he felt oddly at peace. Perhaps he could stay with her forever beneath the sea, and that peace would stretch on as long as their bodies remained there.

He let out the last of his breath, as though trying to speak with her to ask her to stay when panic set in. There was nothing more tethering him to life but his terror. From the looks of things, the woman had stopped breathing entirely. Steeling himself, he swam nearer to her and gathered her in his arms. With the last of his strength, he propelled them toward the surface of the water, holding her against his chest like a sleeping babe he dared not wake.

When he reached the surface, the world crashed upon him in a cacophony of sound. The waves were deafening, the sun was blinding, and whatever peace he had found was sundered, split in two. The only thing left to do was survive.

“Survive,” he pled, not knowing to whom he prayed, but knowing it sounded desperately sincere. “Survive this with me.”

The swim back to the boat felt like torture, but he made it. There had never been a sweeter sound than the clatter of the ladder down the side of the boat and into the water. Hoisting the woman over his shoulder, Blaine climbed up the side of the ship, only stopping for breath once he reached the very top, at which point he fell to his knees. The woman tumbled over his shoulder and onto the deck, her clothes pooling around her.

“Brother!” he heard Hannah’s cry of relief. She pushed past his guards with a groan and knelt before him. “I cannae believe ye did that!” she whimpered as she threw her arms out to hold him.

Blaine put a hand up to stop her and looked up at his men. “Prepare a clean pallet for her and tell the captain to make haste for Glasgow,” he ordered. He dipped his head to catch his breath before scuttling over to the woman.

“Ye were right, sister,” he muttered, before dragging the soaked woman up by the arms and pounding her on the back to bring up the water she’d swallowed. He pushed against her back and turned her head, relieved to see her expel seawater. He pumped until no more was seen, and then he collapsed beside her, exhausted but sucking in great gulps of clean salt air.

The only weapon he had in his armory was hope, and it had carried the day.

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