Author: Kenna Kendrick

One month prior

It’s only a short conversation… I dinnae have tae speak tae him fer long.

Isabeau stopped by the forge, trying in vain to take another step. She knew what lurked inside. She would have to face a man she truly abhorred.

Tiernan Falconer had been a new addition to the clan, a man Alaric, her brother, had brought with him when he had returned from his adventure with the infamous Ravencloaks gang. A brigand. A criminal. A killer and a thief, the kind of man Isabeau, as a proper lady, had learned to fear.

For men like him, she was the perfect target. Had he encountered her outside the castle walls, he would have most certainly attack her, she thought.

Everyone claimed he was a changed man. Everyone claimed he was, in fact, perfectly polite and always keeping to himself, never causing any trouble in the castle. Alaric himself vouched for Tiernan and for the fact that he was a good man, and Isabeau trusted her brother.

She just was not certain if he had been fooled.

Drawing in a deep, steeling breath, she took a tentative step into the forge where Tiernan was working. She had barely moved before she came to a sudden halt once more, heat rushing to her face—heat that had nothing to do with the insufferably hot room, the fires burning bright to melt the steel.

No, it had nothing to do with the flames. Instead, it had everything to do with the fact that Tiernan was shirtless, his chest and shoulders covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his arms bulging as he worked. This wasn’t the first time Isabeau had seen him, but it was the first she had ever witnessed him in such a state of undress, and the sight was simply too overwhelming for her to bear.

She was just about to flee and forget about the whole thing when Tiernan turned around and spotted her, forcing her feet to remain rooted to the spot. He gave her a small, almost awkward smile in acknowledgement, something that seemed very unlike him. Isabeau would have thought him anything but awkward, but there he was, avoiding her gaze as though he was the one embarrassed by her presence.

And despite it all, he was still a brute. The entrance of a lady like Isabeau was supposed to be acknowledged with a bow, not with a smile—a bow he never gave her, as if the thought didn’t even cross his mind.

Tiernan took a moment to wipe his hands on a rag, though that did little to help with the stains, his skin coated in a layer of coal. Once he deemed he had done a good enough job, he approached Isabeau with a small frown, as if surprised to see her there.

“Me lady,” he said. “Is there somethin’ I can dae fer ye?”

His voice was a low, smooth baritone, a rumbling sound that Isabeau could feel in her bones. She found that he was far too close and she took a step backward, her heart leaping to her throat as she tried to look anywhere but directly at him. She hated being around this man, hated that she didn’t know what to expect from him, that she couldn’t read him. But at the same time, her gaze was drawn back to him again and again, seeking the contours of his chest and stomach, the swell of his shoulders and his arms. There was something appealing about him, something so foreign that it rendered him magnetic and repulsing at the same time. On the one hand, Isabeau had never met a man like him before. On the other, she was glad he was the first of his kind she had met.

“I…” For a moment, she forgot why she had come to the forge in the first place, before she glanced down at her hand, where she was still clutching onto the two stones she had brought with her—one blue and one green, family heirlooms she had found that week in an old chest. “I came tae ask ye a favor. I was wonderin’ if ye could make two identical daggers an’ add these tae the hilts. As identical as possible.”

As she spoke, Isabeau held out the two stones for Tiernan to take. It was his turn to hesitate before he finally reached for them, his fingers brushing ever so lightly over her palm as he took the two stones in his hand. The touch, feather-light as it was, sent a shiver down Isabeau’s spine—a shiver she attributed to fear rather than anything else.

Holding them up to the morning light, Tiernan examined the two stones. “Sure, I can,” he said. “Fer whom?”

“Me braithers,” Isabeau said. “One each. I wish tae gift them tae them.”

“A very nice gift,” Tiernan said as he gingerly placed the two stones on the workbench. As he did, Isabeau couldn’t help but notice one of his fingers was bleeding, and he had done nothing to bandage the cut or take care of it.

“That’s a dangerous thing,” she cautioned and Tiernan looked at her with another confused frown, following her gaze to his finger. “It could get infected. Even the smallest cuts can be troublesome.”

“Ach, it’s alright,” said Tiernan, waving his hand dismissively. “I’ve had worse.”

Isabeau knew that to be true, simply because she could see all the scars that covered much of his body. Especially now that he wore no shirt, his past injuries were obvious and she couldn’t imagine how many fights he must have fought to have so many of them.

Once again, she was reminded of how dangerous this seemingly polite and shy man was. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to leave, to get out of that forge and back into the safety of the keep, where she would be far away from him, but the concern as a healer that his cut would become infected gnawed at her and would not let her go. Instead of leaving, as she desperately wanted, she let out a weary sigh and began to look for some ointment, knowing the smiths always kept some supplies in the forge in case of an accident.

Her hands got grimy as she looked for the jar and she scrunched up her nose in distaste as dust and steel particles clung to her fingers. In the end, she found the ointment in a drawer and held it up triumphantly, only for Tiernan to look confused once more.

“It’s fer yer cut,” she told him as she approached. It occurred to her then that she could simply hand it to him and leave, that her task could easily be done, but instead, she approached him—a little timidly—to do it herself. He couldn’t be trusted, she reasoned. He had completely ignored the cut until she had pointed it out. “Give me yer hand.”

Tiernan cocked his head to the side, looking at her as though she was some sort of puzzle he was trying to solve. Isabeau waited patiently for him, opening the jar and scooping some on her finger, only for Tiernan to remain baffled and still, making no attempt to cooperate.

“Yer hand,” she repeated, and it was only then that Tiernan held his hand out, his lips quirking up into a half-smile.

“Dinnae fash, me lady,” he said and then had the audacity to wink at her. “I’m plenty strong.”

Isabeau had half a mind to curse him out, dump the ointment on him, and leave. The nerve of him, acting so lecherously around her, especially when only moments prior, he had seemed so timid! Had it all been an act? Or had she done something to give him the impression this kind of behavior was acceptable?

With a huff, Isabeau snatched his hand and quickly applied the ointment over the cut, making sure to coat it evenly. The entire time, Tiernan didn’t move, but he stared at her so intently that Isabeau was just about ready to jump out of her skin with all the tension hanging in the air around them. Only once she was done did she realize just how close they were once more—close enough for her to feel the heat emanating from his body, close enough to feel his breath on her cheek.

Her heart skipped beat after beat and for what seemed like a small eternity, the two of them gazed into each other’s eyes as if under a spell—a spell that was only broken when the fire crackled and Isabeau jumped back, startled by the sudden sound.

What am I doin’? I must get out o’ here!

She couldn’t understand her own mind anymore. She couldn’t understand her own body, how it seemed to have a will of its own, ignoring her desire to leave and getting so close to a man so dangerous. Slowly backtracking, she huffed out an awkward chuckle, wishing Tiernan could just vanish on his own.

“Well… thank ye,” she said. “I look forward tae seein’ the daggers.”

“Wait—”

Tiernan called out to her, but Isabeau was already fleeing the forge, her legs carrying her out of there as fast as they could without breaking into a sprint.

Foolish… so foolish!

It was only when she was back in the keep that she slowed down, for the first time realizing that she was heaving, gasping for breath. For a moment, she rested against the wall, waving a guard away when he came over to see if she needed any help.

She didn’t need any help—she only needed a minute.

And she needed to forget those grey-blue eyes, that piercing gaze that seemed to see right through her.

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Chapter One

The flames blazed in the kiln, heat pouring out of the fire in waves that suffused the air around them. Smoke, black and thick like storm clouds, erupted from the coals that burned bright, settling heavy in Tiernan’s lungs. Though he wore nothing but a thin undershirt and trews, sweat coated his skin, drops of it dripping from his brow and nose as he labored over the steel, bringing the mallet down again and again to harden the blade in his hand.

He had always known he would go to hell; he simply didn’t think he would be getting a taste of its flames in this lifetime.

Cannae complain. Better than stealin’.

It was good, honest work. It was physically demanding, too, and Tiernan enjoyed both the ache in his muscles which spoke of a job well done and the mind-numbing simplicity and repetition of hitting the steel repeatedly until it morphed into the shape in his head. He could lose himself to the rhythm of the mallet against the steel, the continuous, flowing movement of his arm, the clanging sounds and the steady drip of sweat. Everything else melted away, leaving his mind peacefully blank, at least for the hours he spent in the forge.

He was in the middle of a swing when he noticed a presence behind him. Years of being continuously alert had left him with what he could only describe as a sixth sense, a way of knowing when he was not alone. Though he didn’t turn to look, he was certain of the identity of the intruder, just by her steps and the energy she seemed to exude.

He wanted to see what she would do. A part of him thought that maybe she would turn around and leave, too timid to approach him herself, while another couldn’t help but believe that, stubborn as she often was, she would stay by the door until he finally acknowledged her.

Isabeau did neither. In the end, she walked towards him and though she was a little hesitant, her fingers tugging at the fabric of her dress and smoothing out imaginary wrinkles, she came close, ignoring the flames and the heat that licked at her skin.

Had someone asked Tiernan what colors someone around him was wearing, he would be unable to answer them. But he knew Isabeau’s dress was a deep forest green that complimented her green eyes, a nice contrast to her pale, freckled skin. He knew that her hair, pulled up in an elegant updo, was the color of ink, dark and lustrous, and that when she let it down, it was almost long enough to reach her waist.

He didn’t dwell long on his knowledge of such facts or on what this knowledge said about him. Isabeau MacGregor was not the kind of woman he could ever have—the laird’s sister, raised with silver spoons by gentle hands, a being so pure Tiernan feared being too close to her in case he sullied her with his own questionable character.

He knew Isabeau feared him, and though he had no intention of hurting her—or anyone else ever again—he figured it was better that way. The more she feared him, the farther away from him she would stay, and the farther away from him she stayed, the smaller the temptation would be.

When Tiernan finally turned around to face her, Isabeau stopped dead in her tracks, freezing like a deer that had taken notice of a predator. She was a slender young woman, taller than most Tiernan had ever met, but there was a doll-like quality to her features that afforded her a sense of innocence. Nervously, she adjusted her dress once more, wringing the fabric between her fingers.

Her nervousness, however, did not show on her face. Her expression was blank, almost resolute, as though she had made the decision to be near Tiernan despite her fear and was determined to stick to it. Tiernan couldn’t take offence at any of this; he knew what he looked like, with the battle scars that covered his face and arms, his height, and the nose that had been crooked ever since he had broken it in a particularly vicious altercation. If that wasn’t enough, Isabeau knew of his past. A brigand, a mercenary. Who wouldn’t fear him, especially when they had been raised away from violence and crime?

Still, it was fun to tease her and Tiernan couldn’t help himself. When she took a deep breath and approached once more, he shifted his stance, standing up a little straighter, with his shoulders back, as he stared down at her. It was the kind of look that was enough to make a man flee, and indeed, Isabeau hesitated again, her breath hitching ever so slightly. But then, a determined look passed over her face and she approached, jamming an accusatory finger against his chest.

“Ye’re nae a brigand anymore,” she said. “Dinnae look at me like that. I’m nae afraid o’ ye.”

A lie, but one Tiernan could appreciate. Though Isabeau was afraid of him, she did her best to not let it show and to conquer her fear, stubbornness winning over everything else, and Tiernan couldn’t help but be impressed by her tenacity.

Laughing softly, Tiernan stepped aside to let her get closer to the workbench, where he had laid out the daggers Isabeau had commissioned from him—one for each of her brothers as a gift. Isabeau shot him an unimpressed look, clearly annoyed by his antics, but she said nothing as she examined the daggers, eyes gleaming under the light of the flames.

Tiernan had put all of his mastery into those daggers. The blades were short but sharp, curving ever so slightly at the ends, and the hilts were lavishly decorated with nature motifs. Each dagger had a jewel embedded in the grip, blue for the laird, Evan, and green for her other brother, Alaric, as per her request.

Isabeau’s hand hovered right over the blades, as though she was fearful to touch them. “They’re so bonnie,” she said. “I cannae believe ye managed tae dae this.”

“Is it so unbelievable?” Tiernan asked, his tone light and teasing, but Isabeau was quick to backtrack, eyes widening.

“Nay!” she said. “I didnae mean that… I only meant—”

Panic gripped her at the mere thought that she may have offended Tiernan, and he couldn’t help but laugh. He was not the kind of man to get easily offended, and at the same time, he didn’t think a woman like her should be so concerned about offending a man like him, but Isabeau was nothing if not courteous and gentle with everyone around her. Tiernan had seen her in action plenty of times, marveling at the way she could diffuse tense situations with nothing but a few sweet words and a clever distraction.

Once again, the look she gave him was one of annoyance when she realized he was only joking and teasing her. She dragged her gaze back to the daggers quickly, taking in every small detail about them, but never once letting her hands touch them.

“I took some liberties with the design,” he said, just to fill the silence between them. “I thought Alaric may enjoy somethin’ that reminds him o’ nature.”

He had spent much of his life in nature, after all, since he had served as a scout for Clan MacGregor for most of his adult life. Now that he had married Lucia, it had been a while since he had last gone on a mission, and Tiernan thought he might enjoy having something of the forest with him at all times.

He wondered if Alaric would ever return to those duties or if his life was now in the keep, helping his brother, Laird MacGregor, with the everyday tasks of running a clan. He and Lucia never seemed to him as the type of people to stay in one place for too long—Lucia especially, her life as a member of a band of brigands taking her from place to place. But this life was behind her, as it was for Tiernan. He wasn’t a brigand anymore and he had come to appreciate the simple joys of having a place to stay and an honest, steady profession.

Tiernan reached for the daggers at the same time Isabeau did, their fingers brushing for a single moment before she pulled her hand back abruptly. That one moment, though, was enough to make his skin burn hotter than any flame ever could, a tingle travelling up his arm at the contact. Silence stretched between them, long and heavy in the air around them, and Tiernan held her gaze, idly wondering what she would do next. She, too, stared at him, refusing to look away, but what was at first a simple look soon turned into a glare, her frustration rising to the surface.

He couldn’t blame her; he really did enjoy riling her up like this.

With a frustrated sigh, Isabeau reached for the daggers once more, this time holding them both in her hands. Her fingers curled tightly around the hilts, her knuckles turning white under the pressure, and for a moment, he could have sworn that she considered the possibility of simply stabbing him to death and getting this over with.

It wouldnae be so bad, dyin’ by the hand o’ a bonnie lass.

Tiernan had always thought he would die without spectacle and without a good reason, struck dead by a soldier or taken to the gallows. He had always thought he would meet his end without any dignity and without much fear; that had dissipated a long time ago, ever since he had joined the gang of brigands he had been a part of for years – Ravencloaks. But as a newly honest man, he began to think he would very much like to die peacefully, in his sleep, because of old age.

Being killed by Isabeau would be a close second.

He let out a short, rough laugh at the ridiculousness of the thought. He doubted Isabeau was capable of hurting a spider, let alone a person. She was working hard to become a healer, after all, and that was the exact opposite of hurting people.

At the sound of his laughter, a flash of irritation crossed Isabeau’s gaze and her hands gripped the daggers even tighter, her lips pursing into a thin line. Though she would never directly confront him, since she was not that kind of person, Tiernan could tell he was in for a scathing remark, one that would be as clever as it would be cutting while still somehow remaining polite, and so he gave her an easy grin, taking a few steps back to break the tension between them. It had the intended effect; Isabeau relaxed, even if only just slightly, but the remark came regardless.

“I dae hope ye’re nae havin’ trouble adjustin’ here,” she said with no genuine concern in her voice, though someone who didn’t know her well could mistake her tone for worry. “Dae these knives remind ye too much o’ yer life as a brigand? Perhaps ye would be better suited tae forgin’ shields.”

Tiernan couldn’t help but laugh again, the sound loud and unrefined. “I think I’m alright, Miss MacGregor, but I appreciate the concern,” he said, deciding it was more amusing to play along. “I think I’ve been here long enough tae have adjusted by now.”

“Ye could have fooled me,” said Isabeau, but Tiernan didn’t miss the way her lips curled up into just the barest hint of a smile for a moment. She, too, was enjoying this, no matter how much she tried to pretend otherwise, and that was precisely what was so dangerous about their situation, Tiernan thought.

They could match each other with ease. For every teasing comment he made, Isabeau had a retort prepared and ready to go. Her wit was unmatched, her tongue quick, and her words sweet and deadly at the same time, and Tiernan’s traitorous heart skipped a beat every time she let that side of herself shine through.

Before he could respond, a sudden sound echoed around the room; a thud, loud and jarring, which caught both of their attentions as they turned to face the door. Then there was another thud and another, which soon turned into a cacophony of footsteps that approached the forge.

Instinctively, Tiernan took a few steps towards the door, blocking it from Isabeau’s view. His hand reached for his dagger, which was strapped around his waist, fingers curling securely around it, and though he hoped it was nothing but a few passing soldiers of the MacGregor Clan, he could never be too careful.

When the door to the forge burst open, he knew it wasn’t soldiers. A glance at Isabeau was enough to confirm her fear, the humor having entirely vanished from her gaze, the blood draining from her face to leave her pallid. Three men stood there, and though their faces were obscured by the hoods they wore, he knew they had to be men from his past—perhaps someone he had wronged or someone he had attacked while being with the Ravencloaks. A life of crime and violence was difficult to escape, and even now, after months of working for Laird MacGregor, it had followed him all the way here, to the castle.

Immediately, Tiernan pushed Isabeau behind him, using his body as a shield between her and the men. There was no other means of escape; she could jump through a window, perhaps, but there was no guarantee she would manage to escape those men. Tiernan’s only hope was that they were there for him and would leave Isabeau alone, but he couldn’t count on that. He knew brigands well; he knew that when they saw a pretty girl like Isabeau, there was only one thing on their minds.

He couldn’t let them touch her. He couldn’t let them take away everything that was so pure about her.

As the men stomped inside, the room seemed to close in on Tiernan. He was skilled with a blade, but the odds were stacked against him. These were no ordinary men; they were brigands, too, and they made a living out of harming people. Any skill he had, they had as well.

Tiernan took a deep breath. Behind him, he could feel Isabeau press in close, her entire body shaking, and he reached for her, gently pushing her back so she wouldn’t get caught up in the fight. The men came closer and closer, drawing their weapons, looming ahead like great shadows. Tiernan would only have one chance to kill them all before they could lay their hands on Isabeau, and he was prepared to take it, even if it brought on his own demise.

Blades flashing in the light of the flames, the men attacked, and a battle cry tore itself from Tiernan’s throat as he threw himself at them, ready for whatever may come.

Chapter Two

Isabeau woke with a start, breath catching in her throat. She expected darkness or at least to be in her chambers, warm under the covers and woken by nothing more than an unpleasant dream, but the reality she faced was vastly different. A grey sky peeked through the branches that formed a brilliant green lattice over her head. The ground was hard and bumpy under her and the wind that howled through the trees bit into her skin, leaving her chilled to the bone.

She was not in her chambers; she was not even in Castle MacGregor, and something told her that she was terribly far from it and her entire family.

Everything seemed to ache. Her head throbbed, a pounding headache gripping her from the moment she opened her eyes. Her back hurt from the way she had carelessly been tossed to the ground, and the skin on her wrists felt raw, painful. When she looked down at her hands, she found them bound with rope, the skin of her wrists rubbed pink.

Memory resurfaced slowly for Isabeau, each moment coming back to her in snapshots. She remembered being in the forge with Tiernan to pick up the daggers she had commissioned for her brothers. Then, she remembered the attack. There had been three men, cloaked and hidden by the shadows. Tiernan had fought valiantly, but even he couldn’t fight three men at once and win. Isabeau could feel the phantom grip of one of them, his hand circling her wrist and keeping her still as he pressed a foul-smelling rag to her face. After that, there was nothing but darkness, her consciousness slipping away from her within moments.

A wave of panic threatened to pull her under, bile rising to the back of her throat. Frantically, she managed to push herself to her feet and stumble through the clearing, her daze and panic blurring her vision. She didn’t know where she was going. She didn’t even know if she was alone there, if they had simply abandoned her to fend for herself.

Isabeau forced herself to draw in a deep, calming breath. Looking around, the first thing she spotted was Tiernan, and the relief that washed over her was so great that it almost brought her to her knees, turning her legs weak. He, too, was bound, but whoever had brought them there had made sure to tie him to a tree, making it impossible for him to move. He was awake, though, and when he spotted Isabeau, he let out a sigh of relief, eyes falling shut for a mere moment before he looked around once more, scanning the tree line with his gaze for any signs of danger.

Still in a panic, Isabeau approached him, leaning close. She didn’t know what to say, though; there were so many questions racing in her mind that speech evaded her, her thundering heart drowning out everything else.

“Are ye alright?” Tiernan asked in a whisper. “Are ye hurt?”

The sound of his voice helped Isabeau calm herself a little. Tiernan was there and he was calm, so that could only mean he had a plan—she truly hoped so.

He will make sure we survive this. He kens what tae dae.

Isabeau only had to put her faith in him and believe that everything would be fine. After all, she couldn’t see any signs that the men who had taken them were still there, so perhaps they had left them alone.

But then why would they capture an’ bind us in the first place?

“I’m alright,” she confirmed, keeping her voice to a low whisper as well. “It’s only me head… it hurts terribly.”

Her headache had grown to the point where she was nauseous, her vision swimming every time she took a step, but otherwise, she was unharmed. It was more than she could say for Tiernan. Now that she could take a good look at him, she noticed all the blood that covered his hands and his clothes, the bruise that bloomed over the right side of his face. His lip was cut, and though he seemed alert, Isabeau didn’t know how much of that blood belonged to him and how much belonged to the three men who had attacked them.

Before she could ask him if he was alright, she was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. When she turned around, she spotted four men—three of them wearing the same cloaks as those who had attacked them and another one, who walked ahead of them, who didn’t bother obscuring his face.

He was broad-shouldered and stocky, bald, with a short-trimmed, greying beard and the kind of confident gait that came with knowing one was in control. He was the kind of man who exuded an air of power, someone Isabeau would have avoided at all costs, and when his gaze fell on her, his grin was one that sent a chill down her spine.

“Ye remember me, dae ye nae?” the man asked and Isabeau glanced at Tiernan to find him glaring. There was a familiarity in that look, though, something that proved to her Tiernan did, indeed, know the man.

“Beag Sinclair,” Tiernan said through gritted teeth, the name dripping with poison. It was then that Isabeau’s heart stopped, her blood running cold in her veins.

She hadn’t known who the man was until now that Tiernan had spoken his name, but even she had heard of Beag Sinclair. His reputation preceded him; a ruthless merchant who was said to collude with criminals to get what he wanted—more power, more wealth, even titles. His past was drenched in blood and Isabeau’s stomach churned at the thought of what that man could do to them if he so wished.

It was one thing to be pursued by brigands, captured and bound in the middle of a forest. It was another to be taken by Beag Sinclair and to have a personal connection to him, one which had clearly caused the man to hold some sort of grudge. Isabeau couldn’t help but fear that he had taken Tiernan there to kill him and she had somehow been caught in the middle of it, with no way of escaping.

But I dinnae have anythin’ tae dae with this! Why would he take me too?

She didn’t dare point that out. She didn’t dare speak at all, fearful of what could happen if she drew the man’s attention to herself. It was better to let Tiernan do the talking, she thought. With any luck, he wouldn’t kill them.

Besides, if he had wanted Tiernan dead, then it made no sense to bring him all the way out here, in the woods, Isabeau reasoned. He could have had him killed in the forge instead of going into all the trouble of transporting him to the middle of nowhere, so that could only mean that he needed something from him.

“I have finally caught ye,” Beag said with a satisfied grin, opening his arms wide as to invite their praise. “Dae ye ken how long I’ve been searchin’ fer ye?”

“I’m guessin’ fer several years,” Tiernan said. “Ever since I stole from ye?”

“Precisely,” said Beag. “I’m glad ye remember me.”

All this over a few items?

Isabeau could hardly believe it. Surely, Beag Sinclair could afford to buy himself anything he wanted! Surely, some stolen things couldn’t be worth all this chase, one that spanned several years, from what they were saying.

“How could I forget?” Tiernan asked. “I never did manage tae get that sword though. Me sword.”

Beag chuckled, but there was no mirth behind it, no warmth. If anything, his gaze seemed to grow colder at Tiernan’s goading and Isabeau couldn’t help but wish that he would be more careful about the way he spoke to him. The last thing they needed was to enrage him, but Tiernan seemed to enjoy provoking him and all Isabeau could do was shoot him a warning look, one he couldn’t even see, focused as he was on Beag.

“Well, ye have a debt tae repay,” Beag said as he began to pace back and forth in front of them. At the snap of his fingers, one of the cloaked men approached Isabeau, and though she quickly backtracked, trying to put some distance between them, he was quick to grab her arm and pull her back. She couldn’t help the scream that tore itself from her throat. She couldn’t help the panic, the way her heart jumped to her throat, threatening to project out of her.

“Let her go!” Tiernan demanded as he strained against his bonds, desperately trying to reach Isabeau. His efforts were in vain, of course. There was nothing he could do to get himself out of those ropes, no matter how much he tried.

Isabeau struggled against her captor for a few moments, trying to get free, but it soon became clear to her that all she managed to do was exhaust herself. Her head was still spinning, her muscles ached, and every movement was a fight. Before long, she sagged in the man’s grip, surrendering herself to her fate. All she could do was remind herself that Beag was keeping them alive for a reason. There was a debt, he had said, one that Tiernan had to pay.

Waving a hand dismissively, Beag said, “Naethin’ will happen tae her… well, as long as ye dae as I tell ye.”

At that, Tiernan stopped struggling and leaned back, his expression turning into one of stone. It wasn’t calm; there was nothing calm about him. Isabeau could see it in the way he held himself, shoulders tense, the tendons of his neck showing against his skin. He simply didn’t want to give anything away, and that scared her more than being held captive did, as it could only mean that Beag was both capable and willing of taking advantage of any weakness he found.

“Here’s what will happen,” Beag said as he approached Tiernan. “Ye will kill Constantine fer me an’ then ye an’ yer lassie will be free tae go. An’ I’ll consider yer debt paid off.”

Isabeau’s breath hitched at the mention of that name. He, too, was a man everyone in the Highlands knew—the most feared mercenary the area had ever seen, as ruthless and violent as he was skilled at his job. The mere name inspired fear in everyone Isabeau had met. Constantine was more of a legend than a man, and his reputation was so fearsome that few even dared utter his name, fearful that they would somehow summon him.

“An’ why would I dae that?” Tiernan asked, still expressionless save for a raised brow. “Ye may as well kill me now.”

“If I kill ye, I’ll have tae kill the lassie,” Beag said, as though it was obvious and the natural course of things. There was no reaction from Tiernan once again; it was as though he had truly turned to stone, a motionless statue that displayed no emotion. “The bastard has been after me, an’ I need ye tae rid me o’ him. We all ken he willnae stop until one o’ us is dead.”

“Why me?” Tiernan asked. “Ye could have yer men dae it.”

“He kens me men,” said Beag. “An’ besides, dae ye think I havenae already tried it? They all ended up dead. I cannae spare more, and nay mercenary agrees tae take the job.”

That didn’t surprise Isabeau at all. What did surprise her was Beag’s apparent belief that Tiernan could be the one to defeat Constantine. She knew, of course, of his past as a mercenary and a brigand, but she didn’t know just how far his skills extended. Was he capable of killing Constantine? Was he truly that much better than any other man Beag had sent to kill him? Or he was simply Beag’s last hope?

For a long time, Tiernan said nothing. He only sat there, watching Beag like a hawk. Beag remained silent, as well, the two of them locked into a staring contest.

“Release the lass an’ I shall dae it,” Tiernan said, but before Isabeau could feel any relief, Beag laughed, shaking his head.

“Why would I dae that?” he asked. “She’s here tae motivate ye. If ye fail, she dies. If ye work against me, she dies. If ye dae anythin’ other than what I tell ye, she dies.”

Tears stung Isabeau’s eyes, her breath coming in short pants as she was plunged into the depths of panic once more. With her gaze on Tiernan, she silently begged him to say something, anything—to try and argue, to get her out of this situation, but he never said a thing. He only sat there, expressionless, taking in what Beag had said.

“I’ll have me men watchin’ ye,” Beag continued. “An’ she will be the perfect cover fer ye. Nae one will suspect what ye’re about tae dae if ye travel together.”

There was a subtle shift in the way Tiernan held himself. It was as though he deflated, the air leaving his lungs, his shoulders sagging. Isabeau recognized it for what it was—resignation. Anger quickly bubbled up inside her, breaking through her fear. She wanted to scream at him, to demand that he do something, but still, her voice was caught in her throat, the word dying on her tongue before they could ever make it past her lips.

“That’s what I thought,” said Beag, recognizing Tiernan’s surrender, too. “I figured ye would be easy tae convince when I realized ye were in that castle fer so long. That was yer mistake, Tiernan. All this time, I couldnae get tae ye because ye were movin’ so fast, but then ye stayed there fer months… months! That can only mean ye wish tae go back.”

Tiernan once again said nothing. It was as though he had completely shut down, never once uttering a word. For a few short moments, Beag waited for a retort, but when it didn’t come, he snapped his fingers again and the man who was holding Isabeau cut the rope that bound her wrists and finally released her. Instantly, she took several steps back, trying to get far away from those men, just as Beag advanced towards Tiernan, only to bring his fist down to his cheek. The punch held so much strength behind it that Tiernan’s head snapped to the side and Isabeau couldn’t help but cry out in horror, fearing for his safety.

Slowly, Tiernan turned his head to face Beag again, his gaze defiant in a way his mouth wasn’t. Crouching down, Beag leaned in close, the two of them eye to eye.

“That was fer the ring ye stole,” he said. “I truly did like it.”

Tiernan said nothing as Beag straightened his back, standing tall. He seemed terribly pleased with himself, as though that one punch was enough to reward him for all the trouble, he had gone to in order to find Tiernan.

“Constantine is somewhere in these parts,” Beag continued. “Nay one kens where, exactly, an’ that is why I need ye tae track him down. Ye’ve always been good at this, have ye nae? So, put yer skills tae good use an’ ye will be rewarded. I’ve brought ye close enough tae where he was last seen. I’m sure ye’ll dae yer best tae find him from here.”

With that, the four men were gone. Isabeau watched until they were out of sight and then waited even longer, making sure they were truly gone before she stumbled over to Tiernan, trying to undo the knots with shaking hands.

It was impossible. She was working automatically, barely registering her movements, but she couldn’t undo them.

“Take me knife,” Tiernan said. Isabeau didn’t hear him until he repeated it a few times, and then she reached for the blade strapped to his calf, sawing at the ropes clumsily.

It took her a long time to cut through it and even longer to realize that she was crying, tears carving hot paths down her cheeks. The moment she had released him, though, Tiernan reached for her, taking her face in her hands and searching for any signs of harm.

Gently, he wiped away her tears, shushing her quietly.

“What will we dae?”

Isabeau’s voice was barely a whisper. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it all. She couldn’t imagine what would happen now.

“We dinnae have a choice,” Tiernan said, so gently that Isabeau could almost convince herself everything would work out fine in the end. “I’ll find Constantine, but I’ll make sure ye return tae yer family. I promise ye. But until then, I’ll take care o’ ye. I swear it, Miss MacGregor.”

The weight of his oath settled heavy between them. As Isabeau stared into his eyes, it was easy to believe him, even as she was filled with dread that ran like ice in her veins. Tiernan would take care of her. He wouldn’t leave her to fend for herself.

Even in her fear and her panic, his promise was enough to warm her heart.

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