Chapter One
Glenelg, Scotland
April 1721
Maureen MacDonald sat very still on the hard wooden bench, gazing forlornly at the dark shape of Skye visible from the inn’s narrow window
Beyond the wavering glass lay the dark, restless Sound of Sleat, separating her from her beloved island. The Cuillins, jagged and black against a low, bruised sky were so blessedly familiar, yet impossibly far away.
Her head swam. The world tilted in slow, treacherous circles. The crossing had been hellish––the wind shrieking like an Irish banshee, waves slamming the hull of her brother’s brave little birlinn, and torrents of rain from which there had been no escape.
She had grown up on boats, had laughed at storms and salt spray as a child, but today… was different. Instead of blessing her journey, the sea rose up in tortuous waves, leaving her bent over the gunwale, violently sick, her body betraying her for the first ever time in memory.
But then, ever since her brother Kenneth had delivered the news that she was to be sent away to wed her clan’s enemy, her stomach had been roiling with nausea.
Even there, on land at last, her limbs felt hollow and weak, her head dizzy. Lifting her chin, she fought to keep her shoulders straight. Her brother’s men, commanded by his trusted captain, burly red-bearded Alasdair MacDonald, hovered nearby, watching her with barely concealed concern. She forced herself to offer a faint smile whenever he glanced in her direction.
“I’m quite well, Captain,” she murmured for the third time, though the words tasted false. “Truly.”
Alasdair did not look convinced, but he was kind enough not to argue.
She could scarcely believe she had endured that crossing to get there, to the mainland, to marry a MacLeay.
Her mouth tightened. Clan MacLeay. The enemies her brother had cursed for years, speaking the name in low, bitter voices by hearth, fire, and lamplight. And yet there she was, bound by duty and the orders of a king, a mere pawn in a royal chess game, wrapped in silk and furs and charged with obedience to King George’s will.
She understood the reason for the King’s command. But her sacrifice to save her clan’s lands did not make the thought of her impending nuptials to a man she’d never seen sit any easier in her chest.
She sighed. Perhaps the following day the clouds would settle and her little party would set out again. However, she was in no haste to meet the man she was forced to wed. A ripple of unease coursed through her at the thought of the unknown man.
Her night at the inn was a reprieve of sorts. One last night of freedom, although the low, sturdy building crouched at the edge of the shore, was a far cry from the comforts she was used to.
She shifted her gaze from the distant reminders of home and looked around. The common room was crowded with local folk and travelers alike, all seeking warmth and ale and shelter from the storm.
A maid had placed food before her on the table––a small platter of bannocks and butter, a bowl of broth steaming faintly––but Maureen could not bring herself to eat. She lifted a cup of ale instead, her fingers trembling despite her effort to still them, and sipped slowly, willing her stomach to settle.
From beneath her lashes, she studied the room.
Firelight played across the walls, illuminating fresh faced youngsters along with grey-hairs, lads and lasses, bonnets, cloaks and flushed cheeks. There was an enticing air of merriment in the room. Laughter rose and fell, along with the rumble of conversation.
And then her gaze lit upon one figure that stood out from all the others, courting her eyes.
A man.
He stood near the hearth, tall and broad-shouldered, his posture loose and supremely confident, as though he belonged wherever he chose to stand. She glanced at his kilt, but did not recognize his plaid. Dark hair brushed the collar of his black woolen jacket, his face was open, his features elegant and striking, his smile easy and unguarded. He laughed, head tipped back slightly, and the sound of his mirth shifted something inside her. He sounded carefree, as if nothing could concern him, while she was weighted with woes.
Some women clustered about him. To Maureen’s unforgiving eye, they appeared to be naught but doxies. Beautiful, indeed, but bold and indiscreet. One of them, fair-haired, without a cap but with curls piled high on her dainty head, her ribboned gown lacking a fichu to conceal her bosom, was leaning forward, gazing up at him in a manner modesty should forbid. Another, similarly clad, rested her hand boldly on his arm.
Maureen looked on with disgust. The man did not discourage them. In fact, he returned the touches easily enough – his fingers brushing a cheek here, a knuckle tracing along a hand there.
Maureen’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch, not entirely due to the lingering seasickness.
She felt a flicker of disbelief – and then, unbidden, a hot wash of embarrassment. Was this how mainland folk behaved? So openly? So shamelessly? She looked away, heat creeping up her neck, her gaze dropping to the scarred surface of the table.
And then, she felt an unmistakable prickle between her shoulder blades.
She glanced up, despite herself.
The man was looking directly at her.
His lips were curled in a half-smile as if, despite thoroughly enjoying the women’s interest, it was her attention he sought as he seemed to dare her to return his gaze. The way he looked her up and down was not quite a leer, but held appreciation and interest with a companionable intent, as if he was sharing a private joke with her.
Maureen’s breath caught, and she turned her head away, fixing her attention on a crack in the table, as if it were the most fascinating thing she had ever seen.
She felt her cheeks flush with heat.
Footsteps approached. They paused beside her.
“Well,” a deep voice said lightly, from somewhere close beside her, “I cannae help but notice ye look as though ye might topple over if the bench moves even a wee bit.”
She stiffened.
Before he could say anything further, she lifted her head and met his gaze with forced composure, ignoring the sudden stammering of her heart.
“I’ve nay interest in conversation…” She kept her voice pleasantly polite, though there was a sharp edge hiding beneath her tone, “…with a man who appears tae belong tae half the lasses in this room.”
For a heartbeat she expected him to glare at her, offended. Even make her a muttered apology.
Instead, his grin widened.
“Is that so?” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “And here I was hoping ye might be grateful fer a distraction from yer woes.”
Without waiting for her invitation or permission, he pulled out the bench beside her and sat.
Maureen stared at him, startled by his unexpected move. From the corner of her eye, she saw Alasdair at the nearby table get to his feet, frowning.
She shook her head and he returned to his seat, his gaze fixed on her with concern. There was no need for her guards, she was quite capable of managing the engaging stranger by herself.
“Ye are exceedingly bold,” she remarked to the man. She had no intention of succumbing to his charm.
“Aye,” he agreed cheerfully, raising a hand and pushing his hair from his collar.
Oh my. He is far too handsome.
“So I’ve been told.”
She huffed a breath, torn between irritation and reluctant amusement. “And ye’ve nay care tae intrude on a lady enjoying solitude?”
He looked a tiny bit chastened. “Ye’ve only tae tell me I am unwelcome and I shall leave ye tae yer perfect solitude.” He grinned again, tilting his head. He was daring her to tell him to begone.
“I am still somewhat unwell after the voyage,” she added, gesturing faintly to herself. “If ye’re intent on flirting, I suggest ye find a lass this evening who is far sturdier than meself.” She offered a wry grin.
He studied her, his expression shifting, sharpening with interest. “That pallor,” he nodded as if assessing her, “and the way ye’re gripping the bench as if it might attempt tae flee. Seasickness ye say?”
She pressed her lips together. “The crossing from Skye was… unpleasant.”
Chuckling softly, he shook his head. “Saints preserve us. A lass raised on Skye, undone by a wee touch of bad weather.”
She shot him a look. “It was nae a wee bit of weather.”
“Nay,” he conceded, signaling a serving wench with a flick of his fingers. “It was foul. A dreadful storm, indeed.”
“Aye sir,” the maid bobbed a curtsy.
“Bring something––a tisane tae settle the stomach, perhaps ginger, or mint. The lady is in need of it.”
Maureen huffed. “I need nae—”
“Humor this effort of mine tae tend tae a bonnie lass.”
The maid hurried off, and he leaned back, his eyes sparkling. “I would like tae ken yer name.” He lifted his cup of ale in a half salute. “I reckon ye have a pretty name. Like a flower. Let me guess it.”
Maureen couldn’t help but grin as he studied her with his clear blue eyes.
“With that chestnut hair and the sparkle of emeralds in yer eyes, perhaps ‘tis nae a flower ye are named for, but a precious gem.”
“Pshaw.” Maureen laughed at his flirting. “Ye’re one fer foolish words, lad. I’ll nae tell ye me name. It is fer ye tae guess.”
Her stomach was busy tying itself in knots, but there was no hint of the lingering nausea. It was something else altogether.
“Hm. As ye’ve nae told me, I’ll name ye fer yer home, the bonnie island of mist – Eilean a’ Cheò. The Isle of Skye. I shall call ye Eilean.” He studied her again.
Before she could respond, before she could decide whether to stay to hear more of his nonsense or flee someplace where her heartbeat could return tae normal, he leaned closer.
“Are ye certain, Eilean…” His tone was playful and he kept his voice low so that she had little choice but to lean slightly toward him to catch his words. “…that there is naught else I might dae tae bring a smile tae those bonnie lips and return some color tae those pale cheeks. Mayhap I could please ye in some way…?
His words hung in the air between them.
Maureen’s breath hitched in her throat. Her face burned hot. Although she laughed and shook her head, his teasing words had touched something inside she’d been unaware of until that moment. Something that coiled beneath her heart, drawing her unwittingly to him.
“I cannae listen tae another word of such foolishness.” She gulped in a breath and thrust her hands into her muff. He was altogether, much too forward.
“I must seek the innkeeper,” she announced abruptly, mustering what little dignity she could fathom.
She should not be listening to that man and admiring his wickedly handsome ways. She rose hastily but had barely taken three steps when the convivial mood of the tavern was suddenly shattered, freezing her where she stood.
The main door was kicked open with a thunderous crash. Cold air and driving rain tore into the room, snuffing candles and scattering sparks from the hearth. Several masked men stormed in, swords drawn, their rough voices raised in harsh shouts.
Benches violently scraped the stone floor as patrons scrambled tae flee from the intruders. The laughter which had filled the air only moments before was replaced by terrified screams.
A huge brute of a man slammed his blade into a table, splintering the timber and commanding silence.
Maureen stood motionless, heart hammering against her ribs, scarcely able to believe the scene unfolding before her. The tang of fear was unmistakable on her tongue as chaos erupted around her. The change came so swiftly it was as if the air itself had shattered.
The raiders moved with brutal coordination. This was not the drunken chaos of common thieves but men accustomed to using intimidation and fear to do their worst. Two of them slammed the door shut and planted themselves there, blades bared, preventing any escape, while the others fanned out across the common room. Tables were overturned with rude kicks, tankards sent skidding across the rush-strewn floor. Ale and carafes of red wine splattered against the walls.
Within the space of mere seconds, the cowering crowd was silent, save for muffled curses and sobs.
The same giant who had slammed his blade into the table stood, legs akimbo at the center of the floor. “Coin! Weapons! Throw them on the table. Now.”
His shout cracked like a whip.
The innkeeper was hauled forward by the collar, his face as grey as ash.
“The key tae yer strong box. Now.”
One of the ruffians pressed a sharp blade beneath the terrified man’s chin, whose hands were shaking badly as he struggled to locate a key among those dangling from his belt.
A well-dressed man with the appearance of a wealthy merchant protested loudly. He raised his voice once only before the flat of a blade struck his cheek with a sound that turned Maureen’s blood to ice where she stood.
The raiders, swords drawn, prowled among the tavern’s guests. Here and there a woman sobbed or squealed softly. Purses thudded to the floor. Bags were kicked aside. People crouched, hands over their heads, their mouths moving in what Maureen took to be silent prayer.
Her guards reacted immediately, their warrior’s instinct plunging them into motion, but she had moved away from their reach when she had gotten up. One of them tried for her arm, fingers brushing her sleeve, and the world tilted violently. The lingering sickness from the crossing surged, her vision blurring as the room spun, causing her tae stagger.
That was all it took.
Chapter Two
Maureen’s erratic movement caught the attention of one of the raiders, and his grin split wide as his gaze fell on her. He turned from a sobbing couple and came for her with lazy confidence, reaching out as though she were no more than yet another loose purse on a table.
His hand closed on her cloak.
Maureen gasped and jerked back, the wool tearing beneath his grip. Her foot slid on spilled ale and for a heartbeat she thought she would fall at his feet. Terror and rage flared sharp and hot, cutting through the fog in her head.
“Let go of me!” she cried, striking at his arm with all the strength she had.
He laughed – a hoarse, crude sound – and turned her toward him, tightening his hold. “Look what I’ve found,” he called to his fellows. “A wee prize fer some fun on the road.”
Her guards surged forward then, their blades drawn, shouting her name, steel flashing–– but the raider yanked her toward him, wrenching her shoulder with his force.
The other bandits, their attention distracted by the movement near the kitchen, left their thievery for a moment and rushed to the aid of their comrade, piling onto her guards, engaging them in a fierce fight.
Although her men were sorely outnumbered, they were seasoned warriors, trained and battle-hardened. She glimpsed Alasdair’s face in the throng as her men fought hard, driving the raiders back.
The room roared around her, sound collapsing into a rush of blood in her ears.
And then, suddenly, impossibly—
The stranger was beside her.
It seemed only moments since she had first glimpsed him across the room, relaxed and careless. Now his tall form was between her and her captor, his body a solid wall. There was no warning, no hesitation. His fist drove into the man’s jaw with a sickening crack, followed by the brutal efficiency of a blade hilt to the temple.
Blood gushing, the raider crumpled to the floor without a sound.
The stranger seized Maureen by the arm and hauled her back, not roughly but with undeniable force, shoving her toward the wall and placing himself squarely in front of her. His stance changed utterly – he squared his shoulders, his feet planted solid and unwavering, his blue eyes cold and assessing. The easy charm was gone, replaced by a warrior’s lethal ferocity.
“Stay there,” he bellowed, not looking back.
Maureen obeyed, huddling behind him against the wall, her breath coming in short, unsteady gasps. Her heart was hammering so hard she feared it would tear free of her ribs. Yet beneath the fear, against all sense, something else flared. A strange certainty that this man was placing his own life at risk without a second thought. The realization of his strength, of his presence shielding her without question lent her a measure of courage.
Another man materialized from the melee, taking his place beside her protector. An order cut through the chaos, crisp and commanding.
“Joseph. Tae me left. Now.”
Joseph was already there, following the command without question, his blade drawn, his eyes hard. He took the man’s flank with the practiced ease of a lieutenant. Together with her guards, they pushed forward, forcing the raiders back and away from the huddled patrons.
Steel rang on steel. A man fell. A bench splintered. Someone screamed in pain.
They fought with ruthless precision, with no wasted movement, no impetuous fury, only control. Her protector in the lead, the men drove the attackers away from the center of the room, turning the tide inch by brutal inch. Maureen watched from her vantage point by the wall, her nails digging into her palms as she tracked every movement, scarcely able to draw breath.
Then she saw it.
One of the raiders slipped around the edge of the fight, his blade raised high behind Alasdair’s back ready to strike yet unnoticed in the press of fighting.
“Nae!” she screamed in sudden fury.
Unthinking she hurled herself forward, her hand closing around a heavy bottle from the table in front of her.
As the raider’s sword began to fall, she leapt forward and swung the bottle, emboldened by a strength born of rage and fear.
The bottle shattered against the man’s skull. Glass exploded. He went down in a heap, senseless before he hit the floor.
There was a moment’s silence as if all those in the inn held their breath for a heartbeat.
The stranger who’d shielded her half-turned at once, and for a fleeting moment their eyes met across the chaos. He nodded almost imperceptibly and then, to her astonishment his lips quirked in a half-grin, signaling his approval of her furious impulse.
Trembling, Maureen leaned against a nearby table, part of the broken bottle still in her hand, her heart pounding wildly. For the first time since setting foot on the mainland, it dawned on her that whatever fate awaited her here, it might not be as simple as she’d once imagined it would be.
“Fall back!”
One of the raiders bellowed the words from near the hearth but his voice was all but drowned by shouts and cries and the clash of steel against steel. But his call for retreat came too late. By then the skirmish had turned against the raiders.
A blast of rain and freezing wind swept into the inn as the two men who were guarding the door flung it open and made a desperate break to escape, their boots slipping on the blood and ale-slick floor. One went down under a MacDonald blade before he reached the threshold. The other vanished into the storm.
The rest fared no better.
Alasdair’s men pressed forward, their blades flashing. And all the while the stranger fought relentlessly, showing no mercy to any misguided raider who attempted to bring him down – striking, lunging, parrying without turning a hair, as if he knew naught but battle.
Within moments the raid was decisively over and the raiders were routed, leaving a bloody mess and the cries of wounded and dying men.
The surviving attackers fled into the darkness, leaving behind a pile of broken furniture, and a group of horrified bystanders.
Maureen’s ears were ringing as she looked around. Smoke from the hearth curled sluggishly toward the rafters. Someone sobbed. Someone else retched and vomited. The innkeeper sank to his knees beside his overturned strongbox, staring blankly at the scattered coins as though endeavoring to convince himself they were real.
Now that the immediate danger had passed, the man Maureen had come to think of as her protector, did not hesitate.
He stepped forward, his calm voice carrying throughout the room without effort. “Bar the door. Now.”
Two men obeyed instantly, dragging the heavy beam into place. The man crossed the room in long strides, surveying the wounded with a practiced eye.
“Joseph, see tae him.” He pointed to one of Alasdair’s men who had been dealt a deep blow to his shoulder. “He’s nae dead, but he’ll bleed out if that cut isnae seen tae without delay.
“Ye there.” He turned to another of her men, “Take two of yer company and watch the road. If any of them circle back, I want warning.”
Orders flowed from him as naturally as breath. No one questioned him. No one hesitated.
It was… strange.
Who is he?
Maureen watched, her pulse still racing, marveling at the transformation of the man she’d initially dismissed as a rake – flirtatious, unconcerned. When he’d approached her, she’d thought him handsome to be sure, but not to be taken too seriously. She’d dismissed him as a rake, at home in the comforts of a parlor or ballroom. Now she saw him as a leader. A fearsome warrior who would brook no trouble or any defiance of his commands.
The innkeeper deferred to him without protest. Even Alasdair and his band of soldiers accepted his command without question, looking to him before acting. Strangers straightened when he spoke, recognizing his authority. He did not shout. He did not threaten. He simply was there––a composed, controlled, presence, absolutely in command.
Joseph remained at his shoulder, blade lowered but poised and ready should his leader demand his sword.
“The raiders appear tae have fled, me laird,” he murmured.
His leader nodded solemnly. “Good.”
He turned back to her, his gaze finding hers where she stood, half hidden, beside the wall.
He hastened to her side, his dark brows drawn together in concern. “Are ye hurt?” he asked softly.
She shook her head, though her hands still trembled. “Nay. I… I…dinnae believe I am harmed.” She managed a tentative smile.
He looked her over carefully, not touching her, his eyes flicking to the torn edge of her cloak, the faint smear of blood on her sleeve that was not her own. Only when he seemed satisfied did he incline his head.
“Are ye certain lass? Ye’ve lost all color in that bonnie face of yers.”
Despite herself, she felt a tug on her heart as he spoke.
Yet there was something different now in the way he addressed her. The teasing and flirting were nowhere to be found, replaced by a measured courtesy and respect that touched far more than his easy charm ever had.
The laird, for she had heard him called that, took remnants of the bottle she’d been clutching gently from her hand, his fingers closing around the glass with quiet assurance. “I saw ye act tae fell the lad who threatened yer guard,” he added quietly, his eyes meeting hers. “That was a brave thing ye did.”
There was no censure in his tone, no hint that her actions had been unseemly – only a calm assessment, as though courage were a simple fact rather than something remarkable.
Her cheeks warmed under his praise, though she was not sure why it meant so much. “I could nae stand back and see him strike down Captain Alasdair,” she said simply.
A corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. “Few would have had the courage tae step forward as ye did.” The smile appeared. “Ye’re a brave lass as well as a bonnie one, Eilean.”
Maureen swallowed, her pulse still hammering. “I did not think,” she admitted. “I only… reacted.”
“Aye,” he said. “That is often the truest instinct.”
She wavered slightly, and his breath caught.
“Look at me,” he said quietly.
She did.
“D’ye feel dizzy?”
“Some,” she answered. “But I am standing.”
He studied her eyes, then nodded. His fingers brushed the darkening bruise peeking out from beneath her sleeve. “This will ache come morning.”
“And this…” she glanced at the small cut along her palm. “’Tis naught.”
He gently took her hand, studying it for a brief moment before nodding, a tiny grin quirking his lips. “Luck was with ye, lass. ‘Tis barely a scratch.”
He stepped back then, his smile fading, control returning to him as swiftly as it had left. The moment was over before she understood it––precise, restrained, and unembellished.
And yet, he had looked at her and asked, as if he truly cared, “are ye unharmed”?
Behind him, Joseph cleared his throat. “They were Lachlan Matheson’s men, me laird,” he said grimly. “I’ve nay doubt of it.”
Her protector’s expression hardened. “Aye. Testing the ground.”
Maureen’s heart gave a strange, sharp lurch. “Matheson?” she asked.
The man turned back to her, studying her face as though weighing whether to say more or respond to her question.
“Lachlan Matheson,” he said at last. “An old enemy. He’s been circling like a crow since me braither Aidan MacLeay’s death, pushing us hard, judging what he might take while the clan remains unsettled. Seeking weaknesses in our defenses.”
The name MacLeay hit her ears with quiet force.
Understanding slid into place and sudden clarity caused her to catch her breath.
His unthinking leadership. The men’s deference. The way Joseph obeyed his orders without question, addressing him as laird. The easy confidence with which he had stepped into violence and bent it to his will.
Maureen stared at him, only now truly seeing him, her earlier irritation and disbelief rearranging themselves into something altogether different.
“Ye are…” Her voice faltered as she met his gaze, then steadied as she hauled in a deep breath and exhaled. “…Laird Samuel MacLeay.”
He inclined his head. “At yer service, me lady.”
All at once the world narrowed, so that all she could hear or see was the man standing before her.
Her future – the one she had crossed the sea to meet in sickness and dread – stood tall before her, blood on his knuckles, authority in his bearing, his icy-blue eyes fixed steadily on hers.
Maureen’s heart jolted alarmingly and she swallowed a sudden boulder in her throat, her hands damp inside her fur.
So, this is Samuel, the new laird of Clan MacLeay. The man tae whom King George has commanded I shall be given in marriage.
She allowed the realization to thunder through her veins, robbing her of breath, causing her heart to stutter in disbelief.
For a moment the world shifted before settling quietly back into place.
She caught her breath, poised to speak, to inform this man of her identity – that she was the woman who King George had designated as his bride. But as she stood before him, the words on the tip of her tongue, one of the men, a merchant she guessed by his clothing, drew Samuel’s attention.
The Laird Samuel MacLeay––she let his name form slowly in her mind––turned away before she could speak.
“Pardon me,” he said softly, “it seems I am wanted elsewhere.” He strode across tae the man who was seated beside a sobbing woman.
Maureen laid a hand against the wall, steadying herself as she fought to remain upright. Her legs had turned to jelly beneath her skirts, weak and untrustworthy, and she leaned into the cool stone as though it alone might keep her from collapsing.
Her mind reeled––not only from the shock of all that had unfolded before her eyes, the violence and the horror of it––but from the staggering realization that the man with whom she had so freely exchanged remarks, sharp words and guarded glances, was the very man to whom she was betrothed. The very man she would be required to marry under the King’s command.
She watched him now as he moved through the crowded inn, purposeful and composed amid the chaos. He assisted those injured or dazed, issuing quiet but firm orders tae the men who seemed capable of taking stock of what had occurred. Her own guards, under Alistair’s command, followed the lead with disciplined efficiency, tending wounds and restoring order as best they could. The air was thick with the smell of spilled ale, sweat, and blood, and the murmur of shaken voices pressed in on her from all sides.
Maureen drew in a deep breath, forcing herself to gather her wits. Whatever came next, she would meet it standing.
It was then that Alasdair appeared at her side.
“Lady Maureen, ye’re pale,” he said gently. “I regret that ye’ve endured such a fearful turn of events.”
She lifted a hand, steady but restrained. “I thank ye – and yer men – me Captain, fer all yer bravery in protecting us all.”
He bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “It is I who must thank ye, me lady. I ken from Laird MacLeay that it was yer brave action that saved me from the ruffian’s blade.”
A small, weary smile touched her lips. “Then mayhap we are equal in each other’s defense.”
“May I escort ye tae yer chamber?” Concern was plain in his voice.
She shook her head. “I am well enough, dinnae trouble yerself. Ye must see tae yer men and those who were wounded. I shall be fine.”
“Lady Maureen,” he protested, “I…”
But at that very moment, Samuel reappeared at Alistair’s side.
“Lady Maureen… MacDonald?” His gaze flicked between them.
“Aye,” she replied before Alistair could speak. “And I am nae, after all, yer Eilean, Laird Samuel. I am Lady Maureen MacDonald.”
She saw his smile falter for the briefest instant as the truth settled upon him. Then he placed a hand upon Alistair’s shoulder.
“Captain, I thank ye fer yer assistance,” Samuel said evenly. “May I speak alone with Lady Maureen?”
Alistair looked up at him, his expression guarded. It was plain that he felt the weight of his duty keenly – that he meant to protect her, whatever the cost.
“I truly thank ye fer yer guardianship of me lady,” Samuel continued, his voice firm but measured. “However, as me betrothed, I believe it is me responsibility tae see tae her care from this moment forward. Please, tend tae yer men. I shall see tae the lady’s comfort.”
Alistair did not move at once. Instead, he turned to Maureen. “Are ye in agreement with this, Lady Maureen?”
She gave a brief nod, still perplexed by how swiftly her world had shifted. “Aye. It is fine. Ye have men who depend upon ye Alistair, and I believe that Laird Samuel MacLeay will dae his duty and attend tae me well-being.”
Alistair bowed. “Certainly, me lady. If that is yer wish, I shall obey.”
He turned back to Samuel, his brow still furrowed. “I place the lady’s safety and welfare in yer hands, Laird MacLeay. I trust that ye will guard her with even greater resolve and heart than I might meself.”
With that, he snapped his boots together, turned sharply, and strode away to where his men had gathered, kneeling beside one of their own who lay wounded upon the floor.
Maureen watched Alasdair walk away, the weight of all that remained pressing down upon her chest, and wondered – not for the first time that night – how much more her heart would be asked to bear?
She drew a careful breath, steadying herself as the room seemed tae tilt once more. She lifted her chin.
“I thank ye fer yer courtesy, Laird MacLeay.”
Samuel met her gaze. “Courtesy has naught tae dae with it.”
She blinked. “Then what daes?”
“Duty,” he said without hesitation. “And truth.”
He paused, then added, more quietly, “Ye are me betrothed. That binds me tae ye with more than words. I am sworn tae see that nay harm comes tae ye – by me hand, or any other.”
The weight of that settled heavily between them.
She nodded once. “Then I will accept yer aid.”
He extended his arm. “May I assist ye tae yer chamber?”
“Aye,” she said.
She placed her hand upon his arm, startled by the solid warmth beneath her fingers. He adjusted instantly, shortening his stride to match hers as he guided her towards the stairs. Voices rose behind them – men calling for him, hands reaching – but he did not turn.
“Laird MacLeay,” someone called. “We need—”
“Nae now,” Samuel said sharply. He glanced down at Maureen. “Ye are first.”
She said nothing, but her grip tightened ever so slightly.
At the top of the stairs she faltered, her foot slipping. His hand closed at her waist without ceremony, steady and unyielding.
“I have ye,” he said.
“I ken that,” she replied, her voice quieter than before.
He did not release her at once and her already ragged heart gave an unwonted jolt at his touch.
The chamber he guided her to was small but clean, the narrow window framing the dark sweep of the shore. Once inside, he led her across to the bed.
“Sit.”
She obeyed, her breathing shallow as she pressed her palms to the mattress.
“I am nae made of glass,” she said faintly.
“Nay,” he replied, lifting the ewer from the small washstand by the bed. “But even steel must cool after the fire.”
He soaked a linen cloth and stepped close. When he pressed it to her face, she startled.
“I can manage—”
“Be still,” he said, not unkindly.
She fell silent.
The cloth was cool and his touch was restrained, but the nearness of him made her acutely aware of every breath he took. He worked carefully, lifting the cloth, replacing it, his focus wholly on her.
“Drink.” He offered her a cup. “Slowly.”
As she reached for it, their fingers brushed and a frisson of strange heat coursed through her.
“Was that an order?” she murmured.
“Nay,” he said. “A suggestion.”
She drank slowly, as he’d instructed. When her hand trembled, his closed around the cup, steadying it without comment.
She exhaled. “Ye are accustomed tae command.”
“And ye,” he replied, “are accustomed tae standing.”
Her gaze lifted sharply to meet his.
He stepped back, as though aware he had said more than he’d intended. “Now it would be wise fer ye tae rest. Tomorrow ye’ll ride beside me.” he said. “Dinnae fash lass, I will remain nearby.”
She shook her head. “Ye need nae—”
“I dae,” he interrupted. Then, more quietly, “Rest, Lady Maureen.”
He turned and walked with soft steps from the room.
Alone, at last, she allowed herself to flop onto the pillow. The events of the day came crashing in and she closed her eyes. It already seemed years since that morning when she’d embarked from the landing at Duntulm and bade farewell to her dear brother Kenneth and her sister-in-law Selene.
If she had known what the day had in store would she have boarded the birlinn? But, regardless of what had already come tae pass, she felt a tremor of anticipation about what was to come on the morrow.
She smiled to herself as she drifted into sleep.
Sometime in the night she wakened and shrugged out of her clothes, donning her nightshift before returning to bed. There was movement beyond the door – the faint shift of boots, the low murmur of voices. Despite the disturbance, she was not afraid. She did not rise. She did not call out.
She simply lay there, listening, knowing without being told he was there.
When she finally slept, she dreamed of a tall figure standing before a glowing fireplace, the word “Eilean” on his lips.
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