Author: Kenna Kendrick

Chapter One

May, 1720

Somewhere in Scotland

Lady Elsie Montgomery groaned, the burning of rough hemp against her skin, biting in, leaving her delicate wrists raw. She had lost count of how many hours she had been working to free herself, to no avail. But she kept trying, because to stop would be giving up, and Elsie refused to give up. She had simply never been very good at surrender.

The air in the carriage, which truthfully, was more of a rickety wagon, was damp and dank, filling her nose with the scents of horse sweat and damp wool. Every jolt over the uneven road sent ropes of pain through her arms as she worked the knots behind her back.

She was very hungry and knew not where her captors were taking her. Every move was made under the cover of darkness, and as this was her first foray into the Scottish Highlands, she had no earthly idea where they were. Though she knew they had crossed water at some point in night.

She winced from the sharp jolt of the wagon.

Luckily, an opportunity had fallen into her lap, in the form of a small metal pin. The road she had cursed so much during her ordeal, had provided that small gift. She had no idea what the pin had been holding together, but when it dropped into her skirts, she sent a prayer up.

The wagon creaked forward and her captors laughed when Elsie could not hold in a sob. They mistook her pain for weakness., but she was no wilting English rose, especially not in the face of the fools who managed to get the best of her, not by a longshot.

“Dinnae fash, lass,” one of the men croaked through his mirth. “We’ll be nearin’ Inverarish soon enough.”

“His lordship will pay nicely fer an English lass,” his partner said.

“Aye,” the first captor said. “We’ll be eatin’ well taenight!”

“Fer a long while after that too!”

A chill ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold Highland wind. Her captors’ evil glee at the money she would bring in did cause a small shiver of fear. To be taken and sold like chattel… there was something very wrong with the world when a person was treated thusly. Her value even less than that of a prized mare sold at auction. What would become of her if she did not loosen her restraints?

Elsie gritted her teeth, pressing the small metal pin harder against the knot. The wagon came to a stop just as the knot loosened, giving way a small fraction, then another. Her heart leaped in her chest. The men’s voices grew closer.

“Keep her tied tight,” one growled. “She had a wild look in her eye.”

If only they knew how wild she could truly be. Her pulse hammered as the ropes holding her slipped free.

For a brief moment she was paralyzed, only able to stare at her hands as they trembled, finally free and red from the strain of her captivity. Finally free. She flexed her fingers, the thrill of disbelief flooding her. Quickly she came to her senses and began working the ropes around her ankles. The sharp point of the metal pin cut into the palm of her hand, but she barely noticed. Her focus was on freeing her legs.

Why did I not listen to Selene and stay within the walls of the estate?

Hoofbeats.

Elsie’s head jerked up, ears turning to the sound, her legs momentarily forgotten. In the distance she most definitely heard hoofbeats. And they weren’t the plodding rhythm of a draft horse like the one pulling her wagon. No, these were lighter, faster. Perhaps a single rider, maybe two.

Hope surged in her chest. If only she could reach them somehow. Strangers would surely help her gain freedom from her captors.

She worked furiously, and once her legs were free, she scrambled to the wagon door. The latch stuck, swollen with the damp air, but she would not be deterred. Elsie slammed her shoulder into the rotted wood.

The wood cracked open and light poured into the small, cramped space. Blinding, glorious light. She instinctively put her arm over her eyes, willing herself to adjust to the daylight. She jumped down, boots hitting the ground hard, sending sharp tingles up to her knees.

She staggered, before righting herself into a full sprint. Her skirts flew behind her as her lungs burned from the cold and exertion.

“Stop her!”

Elsie heard the pandemonium among her captors that her escape created, but she hardly cared. She refused to turn back. The moor stretched open in front of her, stopping abruptly along a ridge far out ahead. She ran, heather brushing against her knees. Somewhere beyond the ridge she could still hear the faint hoofbeats, though she was unsure if she truly heard them or if it was merely hope burning in her chest.

It’s no matter, real or not. I’m free.

Then a hand caught her arm, yanking her back with force.

“No!” she cried, as she twisted and kicked, clawing at the red-haired man who pulled at her. He cursed as her nails raked down his cheek. “Let me go!”

“Ye’re only makin’ it worse fer yerself, lass,” the man growled, yanking her back again, knocking the air from her lungs. She hit the ground and rolled. When she tried to rise to continue her escape the captor’s hands clamped down firmly upon her waist. “Enough!” he shouted.

“You’re miserable cowards,” she growled through the sting of the tears she could no longer hold back. Fury blazing through her.

The man struck her across the face, not with excessive force but hard enough that her world spun. Elsie let out a gasp.

He dragged her back toward the wagon, and even though she dug her heels into the earth, she was not strong enough to stop him. Still, she fought, screaming, biting, kicking.

“Dougal, get over here, an’ help me wi’ this beast,” her captor called to his friend.

“Keep her held,” the other man, Dougal, shouted. Elsie was not strong enough to fight off two captors, but she could not stop. She had to free herself. She kicked harder, twisting her body to try and loosen the hold upon her, even as Dougal approached and grabbed at her flailing leg.

Then she heard it again, this time closer. Horses.

“Help!” she screamed using every ounce of air in her chest. “Someone! Help me!”

“Shut her mouth!” the first man barked.

“HELP!” she screamed again, defiant as her shouting echoed over the moor like a battle cry. “SOMEONE!! PLEASE!”

The men swore, struggling to keep her silent, but she refused to stop. Even as cold, rough hands clamped over her mouth and pain tore through her, she fought with everything she had, because deep in her soul she knew this moment might be the only one between her salvation or utter ruin.

“PLEASE! I know you’re out there, please help…”

Chapter Two

The wind cut sharply from the north, carrying with it the salty freshness of the sea—that coupled with peat smoke on the air told Halvard MacLeod, Laird of Clan MacLeod of Rasaay, that winter was on its way. A hard winter, if his instincts were correct.

He pressed his knees into his horse’s flanks, urging the stallion up onto the final rise overlooking the moor. Normally he’d savor the view, the rolling heather, the silver break of the sea, the mountains he called home, brooding like old gods against the horizon. But currently, his mind was not present. His thoughts were fully consumed by what was happening miles ahead at Brochel Castle. More precisely, the unwelcome company waiting within its walls. A royal envoy awaited him, like executioners in silks with powdered wigs, believing they had the right to stride among his lands and people wherever they pleased.

His second, Sten, had rode out to meet him with the news. “They arrived two days ago,” he had said with a grim expression. Keeping pace beside him now, he continued on. “Three men, all with the seal of the king. Led by Thomas Redfern. They’ve been waitin’, impatient, nerves on edge, m’laird.”

“And ye’ve offered them our finest whisky, to dull their impatience, I hope,” Halvard groaned. Running a hand through his unkempt, dark blond hair. At least Thomas Redfern was fair minded, or at least that was how his reputation preceded him.

“Aye,” Sten replied. “And prayed ye’d come back sooner.”

Halvard almost smiled at his friend, but the closer they drew to home, the heavier the weight of inevitability sat on his shoulders, burdened by his visitors. It settled heavier with each hoofbeat toward home. Duty, always duty.

They continued on in companionable silence, but as they rounded the birch grove and the land opened into that wide stretch of moor, Sten’s posture changed. Halvard felt it as well, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. The type that preceded danger.

Ahead on the road a wagon sat, two exhausted horsed tied to it and guarded by two men whose alertness made no sense out in the middle of nowhere, hours and miles from the nearest village. They were too sharp, trained perhaps. They held weapons that did not fit in with a farmer’s load.

Halvard’s gaze narrowed. He knew every man within miles, every family, every tenant. These men were not of this place. They were strangers.

“Are ye thinkin’ th’ same as I?” Sten leaned in.

“Aye,” Halvard responded, his hand naturally moving to rest on the hilt of his sword. Old instincts honed over too many battles snaked under his belt, refusing to be ignored by his gut. “Travelers armed like raiders. Stay close, we’ll pass slow.”

They approached the men at a controlled trot, as unthreatening as two Highland warriors with many years of battle experience could appear. But as the distance between the men closed something changed. The hair on Halvard’s neck stood at firm attention as he identified a sound which could only be one thing.

A woman’s scream.

Halvard reined in hard as the blood running through his veins turned cold. His stallion reared, snorting. Another cry came, this one desperate, pleading. The wagon ahead began to lurch forward and he heard a distinct curse come from a man, as he dragged something––no, someone––from the ground, attempting to open the back hatch of the wagon as it slowly began to move.

“By god,” Sten muttered next to him, already with his blade drawn. “It’s a wo…”

Halvard didn’t allow his friend to finish, he was already moving, spurring his horse forward, the thunderous roar of his horse breaking across the moor like a winter gale. The men turned, clearly not expecting company. One reached for a musket, but Halvard was quick. He slammed into the brute, steel flashing as he sent the man sprawling into the heather.

The second man spun, dragging the woman back toward the wagon. Halvard could see the fight in her. She was flailing, wild as a boar. Her skirts were torn, and her golden hair was loose, catching the sun like fire. His chest clenched as he saw her mouth had been bloodied and her wrists were clearly raw from being bound. Rage built up inside him. To treat a woman in such a manner was unconscionable. Then he saw her eyes… the lass’ eyes arrested him. Despite what she was clearly going through, they remained bright, their emerald depths defiant.

He had seen courage like hers before, on a battlefield. She was fierce, terrified and alive all at once, and he knew if he did not intervene, that light in her eyes would be put out. That was something he could not allow.

“Let th’ lass go,” Halvard warned, his voice a low growl, feral.

The man hesitated, the panting in his breath showing his exertion. “This is none of yer concern,” he bit out.

“’Tis more of my concern than ye may ken,” Halvard replied. “I’m laird of these lands, and tae me, it appears ye’ve taken this lass against her will?”

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Inveraray Castle, Clan Campbell, 5 days earlier

Rain lashed against the narrow arrow slits of Castle Inveraray, carried sideways by the wind that screamed across the battlements. The storm was loud enough to drown footfalls, loud enough to mask the sound of fear.

Perfect.

If she was going to attempt this—if she was going to do something so reckless that her father would thrash her bloody if he found out—that storm was the only blessing she was likely to get.

She moved quietly through the keep’s lower corridors, her hood drawn low, her skirts gathered so they wouldn’t whisper along the stone floor. The walls were cold, slick with damp. Torches flickered weakly in front of iron cages, their flames thin and trembling in the drafts. Few people passed that way unless ordered; fewer still lingered.

Her heart hammered in her chest. Each beat felt like a drum calling out her treason.

If faither learns I’m here…

But she thought of Alyson—pale, exhausted, barely more than a frightened girl thrust into a war she had nothing to do with—and her steps only quickened.

Isabeau had seen mistreated prisoners before. Her father made certain his daughter witnessed the consequences of disobedience and felt them on her own skin. But there had been something different in the way Alyson MacDonald had looked at her that first time—something that had burrowed into Isabeau’s ribs and refused to let go.

Not defiance, not hatred, but a quiet, shaking plea.

Two guards stood at the end of the dungeon corridor. They sat slumped on wooden stools, playing at dice on an upturned crate, arguing drunkenly over whose roll was rigged. They hardly looked her way when she approached, a tray of slop in her hands.

“Evenin’, me lady,” one drawled. “Yer faither sendin’ scraps fer the prisoner again, eh?”

Isabeau smiled politely, the practiced gesture she had perfected over years of pretending not to be afraid. “Aye. He wants her alive tae fetch better bargains.”

That made the guards laugh. “That daes work. How come ye didnae send a maid?”

Assuming a conspiratorial tone, Isabeau leaned closer to the two men, whispering. “If I’m tae be honest, I wanted tae see the prisoner. Och, I’m curious an’ I wanted tae see her.”

One of the guards chuckled, nodding along. “Och aye, we’re all a wee curious, me lady. Go on, then. Take a look.”

They speak o’ her as if she’s a wild animal on display.

They waved her past without further interest, and Isabeau pushed down her rage, her disgust towards the two men who viewed all this as little more than a game. Alyson’s cell lay in the far corner, half swallowed by shadow. Isabeau glanced over her shoulder—still the clatter of dice, still drunken laughter—then forced herself deeper into the gloom.

Alyson sat curled on the straw-strewn floor, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She looked up at the sound of footsteps, her eyes wide and hollowed by fear.

“Isabeau.” It was barely a whisper.

Isabeau knelt, setting the basket quietly beside her. “I’ve come tae see ye and tae offer somethin’ better than scraps.” She pulled aside the cloth lining the basket to reveal a small waterskin, a handful of hard cheese pilfered from the kitchens, some coin, and under them—hidden as well as she could manage—a crude sketch of the land near the castle.

Alyson blinked rapidly, her gaze snapping up in disbelief. “What is this? What are ye daein’?”

“Ye’re leavin’,” Isabeau said. “This should get ye back home.”

“Isabeau—”

“Ye’re leavin’,” Isabeau insisted, and the firm look she gave Alyson was enough to convince her. She nodded, her lips pressed into a thin, firm line, her eyes wide with as much fear as hope.

Alyson squeezed her hand through the bars, small and fragile but fiercely grateful. “Thank ye…”

For a moment they were silent, listening to the storm batter the castle around them. Two women—one a prisoner, the other a caged daughter—raw in their shared fear.

Then footsteps echoed from the stairway.

I took too long.

She looked over her shoulder at the darkness that stretched behind her, nothing but a singular, flickering torch lighting up the passage.

“A guard,” Alyson whispered, panic rising.

But that was no guard; Isabeau knew those footsteps well, the thudding of them over the stone.

Isabeau snapped the cloth back over the map, shoved the basket toward Alyson. “Hide it, quickly!”

But there was no time.

A tall figure strode into view, hovering over her like a looming shadow, like death itself. Isabeau’s breath stopped, and she rose too fast, nearly stumbling, falling right into her father.

His eyes narrowed immediately. “What are ye daeing down here, Isabeau?”

Rain dripped from his cloak, the storm raging outside seeming mild compared to the fury she saw gathering in his face.

“I… I only—”

Alyson scurried back into the shadows, trying to hide the basket, but the movement caught her eye. With a nod, he called over the guards, who hurried to open the door for him, and Isabeau’s blood ran cold in her veins. With two long strides, he reached Alyson and kicked the basket aside, the cloth falling away.

The map lay bare.

Her father turned slowly toward Isabeau, and the cold in his eyes froze the marrow in her bones.

“What is this?” he asked, though Isabeau knew he already had the answer. He gave her no chance to respond before he spoke again. “Ye dare,” he growled, “tae meddle in me affairs? Ye dare betray yer own clan?”

“I wasnae—” But her voice fractured under the weight of his fury.

He seized her arm, fingers digging so hard into her flesh that she cried out. “Ye’ve always been a foolish, defiant girl,” he spat. “But this…”

Alyson flinched at the venom in his tone.

“ … this will not happen again.”

He dragged Isabeau toward the stair, her feet scrabbling for purchase on the slick stones. Alyson cried out, begging him to let Isabeau go, but her voice was swallowed by the clang of the dungeon door slamming shut.

The storm howled as her father hauled her back into the keep, his grip bruising, his rage merciless. Isabeau’s old wounds ached with the memory of pain, with the knowledge of what was to come. But her mind drifted back to Alyson, to that dark, damp cell.

To the fate that awaited her.

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