Author: Kenna Kendrick

“My lady Francesca, your father has asked for you. He is in his salon.”

Francesca sighed and slumped back in her chair, dropping her book in her lap. Maria, her handmaiden, offered her a sympathetic smile and a gentle pat on the shoulder.

“Did he say what he wanted?” Francesca asked.

“I’m afraid he did not, my lady,” Maria answered. “He does seem rather excited and upbeat about something though.”

She frowned. Excited and upbeat were two things she would never associate with her father. His usual disposition was dour and angry, and he was often the most unpleasant man in the world to be around. The upsetting thing though, was he had not always been that way. When her mother had still been alive, she remembered that her father had been happy. He’d had a pleasant disposition, and she had enjoyed being in his company.

That had all changed when her mother had been killed. Scottish Highlanders had come down from the hills and raided the town she and her mother had been visiting the market in, and the only reason they were there that day was because Francesca had insisted they go. If not for her insistence, her mother would still be alive. It was not enough that she bore the guilt of that on her shoulders, but her father made sure she was reminded of it every single day, adding to the burden she carried.

She and her father had grown apart since the death of her mother. They were, in all truth, strangers living beneath the same roof. Most days, he could not bear to look at her or speak with her and when he did, it was to deliver cutting insults or barbs. His disdain for her couldn’t be clearer. And over time, she had developed a healthy contempt for him in return. Francesca did her level best to avoid her father, which was easy, for he did the same.

“Perhaps he has good news he would like to share?” Maria asked hopefully.

“Maybe. But somehow, I doubt it,” Francesca said.

What she didn’t let herself say though, was that good news for her father likely meant bad news for her. She couldn’t imagine, given how they had existed beneath the same roof for years now, that he would be doing something nice for her. Her mind spun with the myriad of possibilities and the dark tidings his summons meant for her.

“Let me help you dress, my lady.”

Francesca sighed as she got to her feet. Her father had summoned her, so there was no way out of it. The punishment for ignoring his call would undoubtedly be ten times worse than whatever it was he had to say to her. So, she allowed Maria to get her dressed and presentable for an audience with her father. He would expect her to be properly dressed in his presence, after all.

Maria finished tying her long, chestnut-colored hair into a tight braid that fell to the middle of her back, affixing it with a bow, then stepped back to scrutinize her work. Francesca smoothed out her skirts and straightened the laces of her bodice, then frowned at herself in the looking glass.

“You look lovely, as always,” Maria said.

“I do not feel that way.”

“Trust me, my lady, you are,” she said. “Go now. Do not keep your Lord Father waiting.”

Rather than incur his wrath for being slow to respond to his summons, Francesca thanked Maria for her assistance, then headed out of her chamber. She trudged through the halls, heading for her father’s salon. Though the journey was not a long one, Francesca felt as if she was slogging through miles of boggy land, every step heavy and forced. She finally rounded the corner and plodded down the hallway to the heavy wooden door that stood at the end.

“My lady,” said the guard beside it with a polite nod of his head.

“Thank you, Edward.”

He opened the door for her, then closed it behind her as she stepped inside. Francesca clasped her hands at her waist like a proper lady and stepped to the center of the room. Her father sat in a chair before the fire, a cup of wine in his hand as he read through the parchment he held in the other. A small smile curled the corners of her mouth, and he did indeed have a pleased expression on his face. It only deepened the sense of dread that gripped her.

“Good of you to join me, daughter,” he said. “I trust the journey to my salon was not too taxing?”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from launching the verbal fusillade that bubbled up in her throat. If there was one thing Francesca had learned, it was to pick her battles and this was one that need not be fought.

“I was told you would like to see me,” she said.

His cold blue eyes flicked to her, sending a river of ice flowing through Francesca’s veins. Though he might seem in good cheer, the way he looked at her reminded Francesca of just how volatile and just how cold he was behind it. He drained his cup and set it on the table beside him, then got to his feet, never taking his gaze off her.

Francesca’s father, Lord Ambrose Ainsworth, was a tall and imposing man. His golden hair bore silver threads, lending him a distinguished appearance. With sharp features, deep set eyes, and a prominent chin, he had the look of a scholar, but his broad shoulders and chest, and his thick arms spoke of his days as a warrior. He had been quite the accomplished swordsman, to hear him tell it.

Now though, his dress was as impeccable as his manners. He was polished and savvy, educated and intelligent. And though he could charm just about anybody if he had a mind to, Francesca’s father was cunning and cagey, with plans on top of plans. He was a political animal, always looking to better his station, increase his wealth, and accrue as much power as he could. He was shrewd, cold, and would stab anybody in the back if it benefited him.

Her father was so a cold a man, callous to the suffering of those around him, that Francesca often wondered if her memories of him as a kind, smiling man were false. Memories planted in her mind by a desire to think better of her father than he actually was. She liked to think he had been a good man who had changed and grown colder after the death of her mother, but she wondered if he had always been this way and she merely invented the man she’d thought he once was.

He brandished the parchment in his hand. “Do you know what this is, Daughter?”

“I do not, Father,” she replied.

His eyes narrowed and a feral grin curled his lips. “This is an official proposal of marriage.”

“I did not know you were courting anybody, Father.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could bite them back and her father’s icy blue eyes narrowed and grew colder. He had never slapped her before but the dark, tight anger on his face sent a ripple of fear through her heart that he might. As if forcing himself to stay his hand, her father turned and snatched up his cup before walking to the table on the far side of the room and refilling his wine.

“You test me, Daughter, but not even your wicked, impertinent little tongue will dull my mood today,” he said.

She cleared her throat and stiffened her spine. “May I ask who I am being forced to marry?”

“Laird Halvard MacLeod.”

“Laird?” she asked, gaping at him. “You’re marrying me to a Scot?”

“I am. The terms we agreed upon for your hand were too good to pass up.”

“Is this a jest, Father?”

“It is not,” he said. “My men will escort you to the town of Raasay, where you will board a ferry and make the crossing to Brochel Castle—your new home.”

“Father—”

“I will not hear what you have to say. This decision is not yours to make,” he snapped. “As your father, the decision is mine. And I have made it. You will leave a fortnight from now.”

Her father hated the Scots. He had hated them his entire life, and the death of her mother had only deepened and hardened that hatred. It was a bigotry he had passed on to her. She viewed the Scottish as unwashed, unclean, uncouth heathens. They were barbarians and she could not believe he had entered into negotiations with one for her hand. As cruel as he was, she could not believe it would run so deep that he would marry her to one. They had murdered her mother.

She tried to tame the wild churning in her heart and tamp down the waves of emotions that battered her. She knew her father’s tone of voice and knew arguing with him would not sway him. It would only anger him. He had resolved to marry her to this Scotsman and there was naught she could do to stop it.

“I trust you received a fair price for my hand,” she said, her tone bitter and acidic.

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “I did, Daughter. I did.”

Without another word and without his leave, Francesca turned and stormed out of his salon. She was halfway back to her chamber before she allowed herself the luxury of her tears. She choked back her sobs, trying to control herself. It was hard to do though, knowing her life was over, that she was being auctioned off to a savage. She slammed her chamber door behind her with all the strength she could muster. Francesca was certain her father had heard the thunderous boom of it slamming shut all the way in his study. She did not care.

Francesca sat on the edge of her bed, drawing deep breaths as she calmed herself and thought about what he’d said. He had told her he would be sending his men to escort her to Scotland, which meant he would not be accompanying her on the trip. And that realization sparked a flicker of hope in her breast as an idea began to form, an idea she had a fortnight to plan. As pieces started coming together, a small, tight smile curled the corners of her mouth.

She could not be forced to marry this Scotsman if she never arrived in Raasay.

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Chapter One

The borderlands of Mackenzie territory
Autumn, 1719

The carriage bounced hard along the rutted dirt road, jostling and shaking the very bones in Francesca’s body. The condition of the roads was just one more thing she hated about this accursed land.

How much she wanted to be at home, back in Northumberland! She missed it already. Her father’s manor house, near Hexham, was surrounded by some of the most stunning natural beauty the world had to offer. And even though she knew Scotland was beautiful, it was not the same. It was a place Francesca did not want to be. It was not and would never be her home.

Her father had tried to convince her the Isle of Raasay could be good for her, that she might build a wonderful life with Laird Halvard MacLeod in Brochel Castle. Not that he truly cared about what she might want for her life. And he certainly didn’t care about her happiness. All he cared about were the benefits he would reap from an alliance with a laird and clan as strong and powerful as Clan MacLeod.

She didn’t know much about this Laird MacLeod. All she knew was that they called him “the Savage”. In truth though, she thought of all Scots as savages. Francesca had no desire to marry in the first place. But the thought of marrying a Scot? That was even worse.

Francesca was unwilling to sit idly by while she was given over to a man she had no desire to marry. She had known that day was coming and she had formulated a plan to escape her fate—the fate that had been thrust upon her. She just had to be patient, wait for the right time. And as she looked out the window again, she knew that time had come.

Francesca’s stomach churned and her heart jumped into her throat. She reached into her bag and pulled out the small prayer book her beloved mother had given her when she was just a girl. It was written entirely in French—her mother’s native tongue—and was one of her most treasured items. She also pulled a velvet purse stuffed with coin she had been secretly collecting ever since she’d formulated her plan.

Francesca stuffed them both into the folds of her skirts and readied herself. She swallowed hard, trying to work some moisture into her mouth and tried to slow her racing heart. Her entire body trembling, she leaned out the window.

“We have to stop,” she said. “I need to relieve myself.”

The driver looked over his shoulder at her. “Nay stoppin’. Yer betrothed’s orders, miss.”

“We have been on the road for hours already. I really must relieve myself. I do not wish to arrive to my new husband with wet skirts,” she complained and blushed. She could not believe she was having such a conversation with a man.

A frown crossed the driver’s face. He turned and said something to the man on the driver’s bench beside him, but the sound of the horses and carriage was too loud for her to hear what they were saying. After an interminably long wait, the driver turned back to her, a frown etched into his features, clearly displeased.

“Fine,” he said.

The carriage slowed, then came to a stop. It listed heavily to the right as the driver climbed down. A moment later, the door opened, and he set a block of stairs down in front of it, offering Francesca his hand and helped her down. She took a moment to stretch her legs and back, using the opportunity to note the positions of the half dozen armed riders her betrothed had sent to accompany her on her journey to make sure she stayed in line.

“Ye need tae be quick about it, miss. We cannae delay too long,” the driver said.

Francesca turned and walked toward the bushes, her legs shaking so hard she thought they might give out beneath her. She was so focused on keeping herself upright that it wasn’t until she reached the screen of bushes beside the road that she realized she was not alone. She turned and noticed the driver had followed her. She glanced at him then back at the mounted soldiers who were looking with curiosity.

“What do you think you are doing, sir?” she asked.

“I am daeing me job,” he replied. “I was told tae keep a close eye—”

“I do not think that extends to watching me relieve myself.”

“Miss—”

“You will not watch me, sir,” she said. “I will report such boorish behavior to my fiancé, and I can guarantee you he will not be well pleased.”

Truthfully, Francesca didn’t think her soon-to-be husband would care all that much. But given the way the man’s face blanched and an expression of alarm crossed his face, she knew it was an effective threat. He cleared his throat and nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “But be quick about it. We still have a lot of ground to cover.”

Satisfied as she watched him take a few steps, Francesca turned away and slipped behind the thick foliage. She stared between the branches, trying to make sure nobody was watching her. The soldiers all seemed to be talking amongst themselves and weren’t looking her way. The driver had stepped over to the wagon and spoke with his partner. It was now or never.

“Please be quick, miss,” the driver called.

“Please stop rushing me,” she shouted back and heard the chuckle of the soldiers.

Francesca drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had to find a well of strength inside of her she’d never felt before. If she didn’t, she would be resigning herself to a fate worse than death.

“All right. It is time,” she whispered.

Summoning all her strength and courage, Francesca turned and sprinted deeper into the forest, running away from her carriage and retinue. She sprinted over the rocky, unstable ground, her legs burning as she tried to navigate her path without turning an ankle and falling. It would most certainly mean being clapped in irons and delivered to her betrothed trussed up like a Christmas goose.

And so, she ran. Dodging between the wide, thick trunks of the trees and around piles of stones, she scrambled up a small hill. She paused and leaned against a large boulder to catch her breath. But then a small, breathless squeal passed her lips when she heard the sound of pursuit. The voices of the men chasing her were growing louder. More strident. Her heart thundered in her chest. They were closing in.

Gulping down a long breath of air, she turned and ran again but the sound of the men was growing ever louder. She stumbled just as a pair of large, rough hands seized her from behind. She screamed and thrashed as she was hauled to her feet.

Francesca managed to break free of the man’s grasp and turned around, slapping him across the face as hard as she could. The man staggered to the side, stunned for a moment, but when she turned to run again, another man grabbed hold of her. Bigger and stronger than she was, he held her fast and no amount of writhing and thrashing seemed able to break his iron grip.

“Unhand me,” she howled.

“We were ordered tae deliver ye tae Laird MacLeod and that’s what we are going tae dae, lass,” the man said. “Now, stop fighting—”

The man loosened his grip just enough for her to squirm free. She delivered a powerful kick to his groin that dropped him to his knees, his hands over his crotch, a sickly look on his face. Francesca turned and sprinted away but was brought down again by the first man. They tussled and rolled in the leafy undergrowth as she tried to get out from beneath him.

“Stop moving!”

The man brought his fist down, driving it into her stomach. Francesca’s body exploded in pain, the breath stolen from her lungs in an instant. She wheezed and croaked, desperate to catch her air. The back of her throat was coated in acidic bile, and she felt like she was about to throw up.

“Ye werenae supposed tae hit her,” the second man said as he staggered to his feet.

“How else was I going tae get her tae stop moving?” the first man complained. “I had tae take the fight out of her.”

“They will have yer head fer this.”

“She’s fine,” he snapped. “Where are the others?”

“They scattered in all directions looking fer her,” he said. “They’ll be along. We just need tae get her back to the carriage and get her in irons.”

“Gladly.”

The man who’d hit her hauled Francesca to her feet then picked her up like a sack of laundry and slung her over his shoulder. As the two men carried her back to the carriage, tears streamed down her face. She’d failed. Damn them! And my father and this ridiculous arrangement!

“What’s all this about then, eh?”

The sound of the man’s voice drew her attention and Francesca raised her head. Standing in the middle of the path back to the carriage was a tall, broad man. Long, dark hair that hung loose about his shoulders and stormy gray eyes that burned with intensity. The strong jawline and hard planes of his face gave him a stern, weathered appearance.

Dressed in black breeches, a black tunic with a wolf’s head emblazoned upon it, and black boots, the man was ruggedly handsome, a Scot by his accent. And there was a wild, untamed energy about him. As she looked at the stranger, Francesca felt her heart leap into her throat. Having lived her life despising the Scots, she was taken aback, never believing she could find a Scotsman so… alluring, so captivating. She gave herself a shake, trying to push it away, but the thoughts persisted.

“Out of the way, stranger. We’ve got nay quarrel with ye,” said the man carrying her.

“The lady daesnae look like she wants tae go with ye.”

“Ye should be mindin’ yer own business, lad. This has naethin’ tae dae with ye.”

The man pursed his lips, his eyes narrowed and burning as he stared them down, and when his gaze flickered over Francesca, she felt her cheeks turn crimson.

With sinful eyes like his even the devil would blush…

“Nay. I think ye should put her down and be on yer way.”

“We dinnae want trouble with ye. We’re just daeing our job.”

“Job’s over. Put her down and go on yer way,” the man said. “Dinnae dae as I say and both of ye will die here in this forest.”

“Last warning.”

The Highlander smirked as he began to unsheathe his sword. “So be it.”

Chapter Two

Francesca watched in horror as the big Scotsman approached the soldiers who’d been dragging her away. Part of her was terrified of the fight to come. The stranger had put himself in harm’s way for her and she had no desire to see him hurt. Or worse. She sat stone still, her mind telling her to get up and run while the men were distracted, but her body would not obey her commands.

With roars of rage, the two men rushed in from either side of the stranger, swords up and ready. The Scotsman grinned as he nimbly leapt backward, leaving them swinging at empty air.

“Ye’re goin’ tae have tae dae better than that if ye want tae get one over me, lads.”

Their faces twisted with fury, they rushed in again, one swinging his sword from high, the other cutting up from a lower angle. Francesca winced, fearing he was going to be cut in half, but he laughed as he danced to the side, leaving them once again swinging at air.

He is toying with them.

The man who’d been carrying her charged at the Scotsman, the point of his blade leading the way. But he knocked the soldier’s blade aside with a quick swipe then spun and found himself directly in the path of the other oncoming man. The soldier swung his sword, his blade slicing through the air in a murderous arc, but the stranger got his blade up in time to block it.

“Bleedin’ bastard,” the first soldier cried.

The pair of soldiers both came at him again, their faces determined, anger burning in their eyes.

As they closed in on him again, their blades silver flashes through the air, the stranger dropped and shoulder rolled, coming up behind them. He thrust with his blade, driving it through the first man’s back. His shriek of agony echoed through the forest, sending a flock of birds nesting in a nearby tree to flight in a flurry of squawks.

The second man wheeled around just as the stranger wrenched his blade free. The first man dropped to the forest floor with a hard thud and was still. The man’s jaw was clenched, and his eyes were narrow, burning with hatred.

“Ye are going tae die, ye bleedin’ bastard,” he hissed.

“Dae ye want me tae fight on one leg?” the big Scot mocked them. “Or perhaps I can put on a blindfold if it’d make it fairer, eh?”

Francesca watched in rapt fascination, her heart racing. For such a large man, he moved very gracefully. He was like a dancer who floated on the wind, his every movement elegant and horrifyingly beautiful in its deadly efficiency. She saw his muscles ripple as he slid from side to side, spinning and twirling with lethal intent. She should be terrified. She should be running in the opposite direction to escape the battle, but Francesca could do nothing but sit and watch him. Mesmerized.

The soldier howled in outrage as he rushed forward. The stranger waited until the man closed in and went to work with his blade. He hacked and slashed, his blade a dizzying flash of silver the soldier was having a hard time keeping up with. Sweat poured down his face and he grunted with the effort, parrying and thrusting in a desperate frenzy to kill his rival. As they battled, movement from the corner of Francesca’s eye drew her attention and her heart fell into her stomach as another armed soldier rushed in.

“Behind you!” she screamed.

With a powerful slash, he drove both men back, giving him a little bit of space, but the newcomer charged him. He drove the young man’s blade up then drove his fist into his face. The man’s head snapped back, sending a spray of blood high into the air. The young man fell on his back, eyes closed, out cold.

The second man came charging in and the Scot darted aside and Francesca gasped as the tip of the man’s blade narrowly missed his ribs. But he grabbed hold of the soldier’s wrist and using his momentum against him, spun him around. With one fluid movement, the Scot drove this sword into the man’s stomach. The soldier grunted and his body grew rigid.

The stranger stared into the man’s eyes, watching the light of his life flickering out. Yanking his blade from the man’s body, he let it topple over and cleaned his blade off on his cloak then turned to Francesca.

“How many more are out there?” he asked.

“I—I don’t know. There were six in my retinue, two drivers, and five, I think, who went on to scout the way ahead,” she said, shaking her head. “I think. I can’t be sure.”

“All right then,” he said. “We need tae get out of here.”

“I cannot go anywhere with you,” Francesca said, sounding as offended as she looked by his suggestion. “I do not even know you, sir.”

The Scotsman shrugged. “All right. Then ye can wait here fer the rest of the soldiers tae come back and maybe ye can explain how two of their own wound up dead then, eh?”

She gasped, her face blanching as she stared at him. But she said nothing. And she remained seated on the ground where the soldiers had first dropped her.

“From what I saw, ye didnae want tae go with these men,” he said. “Dae ye think when the rest of their men arrive, they’ll take ye where ye want tae go? Or dae ye think it more likely they’ll take ye where ye were fightin’ so hard nae tae go, eh?”

She shook her head. “Where did you come from?”

“These are me woods,” he said. “So, what dae ye want tae dae? Go with me? Or stay and wait fer the rest of the soldiers to arrive?”

Francesca gaped at him, upset at his impertinence, and said nothing for several long moments. The man finally shrugged.

“Well, good luck tae ye then, lass,” he said.

He turned and started to walk away. Francesca’s belly churned as fear gripped her heart. She quickly scrambled to her feet.

“Wait,” she called.

He slowed his pace but did not stop and walked on. She fell into step beside him, her expression angry and resentful.

“What’s yer name, lass?” he asked.

“That is none of your business, sir.”

“I saved yer life. Daesnae that entitle me tae at least ken yer name?” He said as he threw her an assessing glance over his shoulder that made her blush.

“No. It entitles you to nothing.”

“I’m riskin’ me life takin’ ye tae safety—”

“It entitles you to nothing but my thanks,” she cut him off feeling surprisingly flushed despite the chill in the air. “So, thank you.”

“All right, lass,” he said. “Have it yer way then.”

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