Romance in the misty Highlands...

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Chapter One

September 1313

Laird MacCullam’s ball, Dunollie Keep, the Scottish Highlands

“Ye can hide all ye like…” said the familiar voice softly from behind Isla MacKenzie’s back, making her jump, “…but I fear ye’ll nae be able tae avoid yer fiancé fer the entire evenin’.”

Isla blushed at being caught out spying on her soon-to-be betrothed from behind one of the grand stone columns, even if it was only by Eleanor MacTavish, her faithful maid and confidante. Turning from the glittering gathering of ball guests rapidly filling the vast, decorated chamber, she met Eleanor’s sharp, dark eyes.

“I’m nae hidin’,” she lied above the chatter and the melodic strains of harp music.

“If ye say so, though it looks a lot like ye’re hidin’ if ye ask me,” Eleanor observed in her dry, teasing way.

“Well, I didnae ask ye,” Isla pointed out without heat, turning back to the ball. She fixated her nervous gaze again on the richly dressed, immaculately groomed person of Elliot Munro.

The chief of Clan Munro.

And soon—her fiancé.

“Ach, what are ye waitin’ fer? The sooner ye’re on his arm, the sooner he can introduce ye as his official betrothed, and the more pleased yer braither will be,” the maid said.

“Aye, I ken it well enough,” Isla said, wishing her elder brother Ewan, Laird MacKenzie of Kintail, was not still closeted with their host, Laird MacCullam, in his study. “I was hopin’ Ewan would escort me over tae speak tae Elliot.”

Her eyes cut across the guests, settling on the man in question.

“He’s nae bad lookin’, and he scrubs up all right, I’ll grant him that much,” Eleanor said, eyeing him critically. “That surcoat he’s wearin’ must have cost a fortune, and look, there’s nae a hair on his head out of place.”

Isla nodded, once more taking in the cut of Elliot’s richly embroidered, silver brocade coat. It provided a lavish background to the bright Munro plaid fixed over his shoulder by a silver pin shaped like an eagle in flight, talons poised to seize its prey—the sigil of his clan.

“I reckon he’s less of an eagle and more of a peacock,” she muttered disparagingly.

Her sarcasm drew an appreciative snicker from Eleanor, which Isla only wished she could echo. She had no laughter left in her, only a creeping sense of dread that grew heavier and colder the longer she contemplated her future as Elliot Munro’s wife.

She could not deny he made for a striking figure in his refined, polished way.

But he’s too polished, too flashy.

The deliberate elegance and richness to his dress said he liked to show off his wealth, a quality she disliked. But then, if truth be told, she disliked her future husband altogether, for reasons she could not quite pin down.

“I still cannae make out why ye went ahead and agreed tae wed him,” Eleanor said for the umpteenth time.

Isla huffed softly, heartily sick of the question, which had been rattling around in her head every minute of the day—and during her increasingly sleepless nights—since agreeing to the match a few days before.

“Ye ken very well why,” she countered, unable to keep the resentment from her voice. “I had tae agree tae it. Ewan wants it, the clan needs it. ’Tis me duty.”

As she spoke, her mind flicked back to the fateful interview in her brother’s study when Ewan had told her that Elliot Munro had offered for her hand and had then laid out for her exactly why both he and the clan needed her to agree to the marriage.

The clan was broke, and Ewan was convinced that only an alliance with the powerful Clan Munro would enable the MacKenzies to survive and rebuild after the ravages of a long and costly conflict.

Ewan would not force her to go ahead with it, but he had made it clear that the fate of the clan was in her hands. The weight of expectation weighed upon her. What else could she do but her duty? Whether she liked the man she was supposed to wed or not was of no importance whatsoever. As she had always dreaded it would be, hers was to be a loveless marriage of convenience, a political and strategic union. A sacrifice on her part that would ultimately benefit the entire clan.

The trouble was, the peacocking, ambitious, some might say grasping, Laird Munro left her cold, as cold as the many years which stretched out in front of her spent shackled to him as his wife.

But she adored Ewan, had always looked up to him as her protector in the absence of their parents, lost at too young an age. A feared and respected laird, Ewan had practically raised her, along with her other brother Duncan. Her brothers were all the family she had, and she loved them to distraction.

I owe them. And as much as me heart and soul rebels against it, I will make this sacrifice fer Ewan, fer Duncan, and fer me clan.

“I must go and dae me duty, I suppose,” she quietly told Eleanor, who gave a nod and followed as Isla stepped out from behind the column and started through the crowd to meet Elliot. Since the pair were not yet officially betrothed, the maid had to be ready to play chaperone if needed.

When Elliot noticed them, he immediately ceased his flow of talk with a small group of guests and widened his permanent smile into something bordering on a grin. Allied with the cold, dark marble of his eyes, which settled upon her almost gloatingly, he put Isla in mind of a crocodile.

They exchanged pleasantries as he strutted amongst the guests with Isla clamped to his side, Eleanor following close behind.

“This is me chance tae show off me future wife tae everyone,” he told Isla, beaming so proudly, she began to think she might have misjudged him. Perhaps he was interested in her for herself and not merely what he would gain materially by marrying her. She resolved to try her hardest to make things work to Ewan’s satisfaction.

But by the time they had stopped to converse with three different sets of people and Elliot had not mentioned their betrothal once, she was thoroughly confused.

What’s he playin’ at? Why is he nae sayin’ anythin’?

For a few minutes she could not fathom the reason for his odd behavior. But a certain glint in his eyes as he guided her towards another knot of guests prompted an odd suspicion within her.

Maybe he’s daein’ it deliberately tae make me feel uncomfortable… and that’s what he wants.

A sudden flash of fear prickled her skin. Because her instinct told her that a cruel streak lurked beneath the polished veneer he showed to the world. And that instinct, she realized, was the basis for her dislike of him.

It daesnae bode well fer a happy marriage, but ’tis nae enough tae persuade Ewan tae break the agreement. But she had her pride and refused to give Elliot the satisfaction of thinking he was upsetting her. So, she simply raised her chin and smiled as serenely as she could.

While Elliot was yet again commanding the conversation with the next clique of guests as if she did not exist, her gaze drifted about the hall. Suddenly, her eye was caught by a figure that stood out from the crowd, a tall, broad-shouldered man with wild dark hair that fell to his shoulders. She could not see all of him, but what she could see through the crush of bodies was impressive enough to make her stare… and tingles run up and down her spine.

He was lounging against a small balustrade at the edge of the dancefloor, surveying the guests, sipping occasionally at a goblet held in a massive fist. His close-fitting black velvet tunic reached his thighs and showed off his muscular physique admirably, as did his crimson mantel.

As a chaste maiden with no real experience of men and what they kept inside their hose, she felt deliciously naughty as she wondered if his bottom half looked as good as the rest of him. Something told her it would not be a disappointment, though what that meant she was not entirely sure, only that it was strangely exciting to ponder.

To her mind, his outfit was perfectly understated and showed excellent taste. She much preferred the restrained look to the flashy, too-fashionable clothes of her intended. Clearly, that man did not feel the same compulsion as Elliot to advertise his wealth, though her trained eye could see it in the costly velvet and expert tailoring of his attire.

He appeared relaxed, entirely comfortable in his own skin., yet at the same time she sensed an alertness to him, as of immense power being kept under strict control lest it erupt.

His features were equally arresting, as handsomely chiseled as any ancient god’s visage wrought in marble. But any youthful softness they may have once possessed had been hardened and scarred by what she presumed had to be combat. She wondered what terrible things he might have seen and done. He radiated confidence and command, but there was a coldness about him that was forbidding enough to make her shiver slightly.

He feels… dangerous.

Suddenly, she found herself pinned by his dark eyes, and her heart jumped. The hall, the guests, even Elliot disappeared as the stranger’s penetrating gaze locked with hers… and held a moment longer than was proper. She could not look away. Inexplicably, curls of unfamiliar heat unfurled in her belly, and disappointment washed over her when he turned away and vanished into the crowd.

After a moment of staring at the space the compelling stranger had so recently occupied, she became aware that her arm was starting to hurt. When she looked down, she realized it was because Elliot had his hand around her wrist and was slowly tightening his hold.

She looked up at him in confusion, wondering what he was at, only to be met by his hard, dark gaze and a thin smile of what looked like gratification. If she had not known better, she would have thought he was enjoying inflicting pain upon her.

“Ye’re hurtin’ me, me laird,” she said politely, not wanting to draw the curiosity of the surrounding guests.

His smile of apology had a predatory edge to it that made her flesh crawl, but the pressure on her wrist abated at once.

“Och, forgive me, me lady. I didnae realize I was hurtin’ ye. I dinnae ken me own strength at times,” he said.

“’Tis quite all right,” Isla lied, repulsed by his touch as she solicitously rubbed at her wrist, which hurt more than she cared to show. Silently reminding herself of all that was at stake, she managed to keep smiling.

Flustered by the incident with the stranger and then with Elliot’s weird behavior, Isla craved time alone to compose herself.

Turning, she quietly whispered, “If ye’ll excuse me, I shall go refresh meself.”

“I could dae with a wee leak mesel’ as well, so I’ll escort ye,” he said, giving Isla no choice but to agree. Fortunately, when they reached the vestibule, he left her with a maid to find the nearest privy, while he went outside in search of a convenient clump of bushes.

Locked in the privy, awash with strange emotions and sensations evoked by the glance shared with the intriguing yet menacing stranger, Isla gave herself a hard mental shake.

I’m as good as engaged tae Elliot. After we’re wed, there’ll be nay other man fer me. Ever.

The thought was profoundly depressing. Somehow, it was even more crushing now she knew a man as ruggedly beautiful as the stranger existed in the world. For despite his coldness, with a mere look he had stirred something deep within her she had never experienced before and doubted she ever would again.

Desire.

When she emerged from the privy ten she made her way back inside the ballroom.

The level of noise was terrific, but as she passed the row of stone columns near the entrance, where she had hidden earlier, she could clearly make out Elliot’s voice somewhere nearby, speaking in low tones. Confused, Isla stopped, looking around for him. When she could not see him, she quickly realized he was on the other side of one of the columns.

Careful to remain unseen, she peeped around it and spied him deep in conversation with another man. There was something so shifty about them, she was overcome by the urge to eavesdrop on the conversation and pressed herself against the cold stone, ears cocked.

They kept their voices low. Elliot was speaking.

“The sooner we get shackled, the better.”

“And yer plan still stands, daes it, fer after ye’re wed?”

“Aye. I’ll give it a few weeks fer the ink tae dry on the marriage agreement, but as soon as I have access tae the trade routes I need, we can move. I’ll give ye the nod, and ye can arrange a convenient wee huntin’ accident fer her braithers, as planned. As Isla’s husband, I’ll be forced tae take over the clan, and ye’ll be richly rewarded fer yer services as promised.”

They carried on talking, but Isla heard no more. She froze, hardly able to breathe as the horrible truth sank in.

He means tae marry me and then murder Ewan and Duncan, so he can take over the clan!

She must have made a noise because the next thing she knew, Elliot and his henchman appeared from around the column. Elliot’s face darkened with fury when he saw her. Isla backed away, but his arm snaked out, his fingers imprisoning her wrist once again.

“Go,” he ordered his companion, who left without a word.

He then turned to Isla with narrowed lids.

“How much of that did ye hear, ye nasty wee spy?” Elliot demanded when they were alone, eyes hard as stones.

 

Chapter Two

“Enough tae ken what a blackhearted bastard ye are. Get yer filthy hands off me!” she snapped, swinging at his face with her open hand whilst fighting to free her captive wrist from his iron hold. Regrettably, she missed her mark. But her unexpected strength and fierceness clearly took him by surprise, and he almost let her slip from his grasp before digging his fingers into her flesh even harder than before.

He pulled her close, his cloying scent and hot breath making her gag as he leaned down and growled in her ear, “Then ye might as well ken that I intend tae announce ye as me betrothed tae the whole company within the hour.”

“Are ye mad? Ye think I’m gonna marry ye now I ken what a monster ye are?” she shot back, continuing to struggle to get free. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed they were attracting attention on the fringes of the crowd and stepped up her efforts.

But Elliot had seen it too, and the determined way he set his jaw told her he wanted to avoid a scene. “Och, nay, me bonny wee fool, ye’ll nae escape this marriage,” he hissed menacingly, trying to pull her away from the bystanders to a more secluded spot.

“Och, I will, because the minute Ewan hears what a treacherous dog ye are, ye’ll be dead!” she threatened, her voice rising as she dug in her heels.

“Keep yer voice down and listen. I promise ye, wench, any disobedience from ye will cost yer braithers their lives.”

“Is that before or after ye marry me, as ye plan tae kill them anyway? Ye’ll nae get away with this. Now, fer the last time, let me go, ye bastard!” she cried, fury erupting inside her.

“Shut yer mouth, ye’re makin’ a scene!” he growled, his growing agitation evident in his increasingly worried glances towards the guests, some of whom were now openly watching them.

“Good, because I cannae wait tae tell everybody what a bastard ye are!” she spat, rallying all her strength to assault his codpiece with her knee. Laughter rippled through the watchers.

“Ye bitch!” Elliot rasped. Releasing her, he doubled over, clutching his balls. “Ye’ll pay fer that!”

And then she was flying backwards as he let her go. She stumbled, lost her footing, and knew she was about to fall on her backside in front of everyone.

To her surprise, instead of hitting the floor, she cannoned into a large, hard body behind her, yelping as two muscular arms went around her waist and held her, only withdrawing when she was steady on her feet.

She turned to thank her rescuer, but her tongue froze when she was faced with a wall of a chest and looked up into the storm gray eyes of the dark, dangerous stranger.

“Are ye all right, me lady?” he asked with concern, his voice a deep, husky baritone that sent a shiver down her spine.

Isla’s mouth opened, but no words came out, so she closed it and nodded instead.

“Nay harm done then.” He bowed. “Darragh MacLeod, at yer service,” he said.

Isla took a step back. “Ye’re Darragh MacLeod?” she asked, recovering her voice.

“I ken nay other,” he replied.

It seemed incredible to her that the disturbingly attractive stranger, who had just saved her from a nasty fall, was the famed Laird of Clan MacLeod, one of the most feared and influential lairds in the Highlands. The rumors Isla had heard about him painted him as ruthless and unyielding. But none of them had prepared her for the force of his actual presence in such close proximity.

He turned a hard look on Elliot, who, Isla noticed, had more or less successfully gathered his composure.

“Well, I must say I’m nae surprised tae come upon such a deplorable scene,” Darragh remarked coolly. “This is exactly how I imagined Elliot Munro would treat his betrothed.”

The challenge in the remark shook Isla, who realized there was bad blood between the two men.

“A mere lover’s spat,” Elliot downplayed, throwing a sheepish smile at the growing number of curious bystanders.

Behind them, the party was in full swing. A trio equipped with fiddle, drum, and pipes was about to take over from the harpist and were tuning up ready for the dancing.

“A lover’s spat, eh?” Darragh said, nodding his disbelief. “Well, methinks ye both need some time apart tae cool down.”

To Isla’s utter shock, he turned back to her. Holding out a huge paw, he said, “Would ye dae me the honor of sharin’ this dance with me, me lady?”

Isla inhaled sharply. Darragh might as well have punched Elliot in the face instead of asking her to dance. Everyone who heard it recognized it for what it was, a blatant insult. A man did not publicly ask to dance with a woman about to be affianced, not unless he meant to provoke her intended.

Is he tryin’ tae start a fight?

Isla was alive to the tension in the air.

“Go on and dance with him,” Elliot suddenly said, to her surprise, eliciting a chorus of disappointed gasps from the bystanders, who were clearly hoping for a ruckus. Isla realized Elliot was controlling himself, not wishing to appear threatened, unwilling to grant Darragh the satisfaction of a public reaction to the gross insult.

Shooting him a defiant look, she unequivocally placed her hand in Darragh’s.

“I’d be delighted tae dance with ye, me laird,” she said, glad for the opportunity to get away from Elliot. She needed time to think about what to do and hoped the dance would help her decide whether to tell Ewan the truth about Elliot’s plot straightaway or heed Elliot’s threats to kill her brothers if she did not keep quiet and submit to the marriage.

But he’s plannin’ tae kill them anyway! Och, what dae I dae?

Wracked by indecision, she found unexpected comfort in the strength radiating from Darragh as he led her to the floor. It was rapidly filling up with expectant dancers, all waiting for the musicians to begin. Darragh kept hold of her hand as they took up their positions opposite each other, and she was not sorry for it. A steadiness seemed to flow from the surprisingly gentle touch of his huge, roughened hand that was a stark contrast to Elliot’s cruel grip.

From the very first steps, the dance was charged with tension. Not least because when she was in hold, she was supremely conscious of Darragh’s hard body pressed against hers, especially of his powerfully muscled legs and his groin. He was a skilled, athletic dancer, and Isla found the experience of partnering him simultaneously thrilling and acutely embarrassing. Fortunately, she managed to pass off her blushes and shallow breathing as the effects of the dancing. At least, she hoped she did.

“Ye’re a very good dancer, Lady Isla,” he said, not out of breath in the slightest as he twirled her beneath his arm before taking her in hold again and whizzing her around the floor to the jaunty jig.

Surprised, she looked up as she clung to him, having to crane her neck to meet his eyes. “Ye ken who I am?” she asked breathlessly, her feet leaving the floor as he whirled her about.

“When I wantae ken somethin’, I make it me business tae find out.”

“I cannae imagine why I would be of any interest tae ye,” she said, skipping right then left in a circle, mirroring his movements.

“A bonny lass like ye, still unwed? Ye’re quite the prize, Isla, if ye did but ken it,” he replied.

For some stupid reason she could not fathom, she blushed. “Lady Isla. Ye’re very forward. Ye shouldnae be so familiar, seein’ as we dinnae ken each other.”

“I’m Laird MacLeod. I’m allowed tae be forward,” he countered, tapping his toes as he stood still and let her use him as a maypole.

“I suppose so, if ye’re nae a true gentleman.”

He chuckled, revealing for the first time a smile Isla was sure would make any woman melt. Indeed, she noticed how some of the ladies were glancing admiringly at his well-developed calves as they danced by.

“I may be many things, but I’ve never claimed tae be a gentleman,” he said. Then, in the next breath, “Is it true what the rumors are sayin’? That ye and Munro are soon tae be wed?”

“Ye shouldnae listen tae rumors,” she puffed, perversely starting to enjoy their exchange as well as the dance.

“Ballocks. Rumors can be very useful. So, is it true?”

“’Tis none of yer business,” she retorted, slightly ashamed to admit the truth. Again, her feet left the floor, and her skirts flew up when he grasped her around the waist and practically threw her into the air then, caught her with ease before dancing on.

“Ye ken he’s nae good enough fer ye, eh? I can see ye dinnae like the man.”

“Ye see naethin’.”

Is it so obvious?

“Come on, there’s nay harm in admittin’ it. Ye dinnae wantae marry him, dae ye? But ye havetae dae it fer yer clan. Is that nae the truth of it?”

“Stop pokin’ yer nose.”

“Tell me, I’ll nae tell a soul, I swear. Is it a love match? Are ye in love with him?”

She could not stop the bitter little laugh that broke from her lips, nor her disparaging tone when she finally gave in and told him what he wanted to know. “’Tis definitely nae a love match. Ye’re right, I dinnae wantae marry him. I only agreed tae the betrothal tae protect me braithers and me clan.”

There was a brief flash in his eyes as he spun her beneath his arm again. To Isla, it looked almost like triumph. But since it could not be that, she put it down a trick of the flickering candlelight reflected in his eyes.

But when he murmured, “I kenned it,” she knew it had been triumph after all.

“What is it tae ye whether ’tis a love match or nae?”

“’Tis important,” he said confusingly. “If ye dinnae wantae marry the man and ye need a hand gettin’ out of the betrothal without shirkin’ yer duty, then I’d be happy tae help.”

“Help?” She stared up at him, bewildered. “How?”

To her complete astonishment, instead of replying, he suddenly brought their dance to an abrupt halt at the center of the floor, causing an uproar among the other dancers, who were forced to pull up short to avoid collisions.

Amid the confusion, before Isla could even catch her breath long enough to demand to know what he thought he was doing, he leaned down… and planted his lips firmly upon hers.

 

Best selling books of Kenna

Scotland, November 1720

Near the coast of the Isle of Skye

The sun was shining when they reached the tiny village of Mallaig not long after noon.

Selene slowed her pony to a walk, blinking against the sudden brightness. It was almost unreal after so many days of relentless grey skies and cold winds, of damp wool and aching limbs, of a road that seemed determined never to end.

The sea lay before them at last, wide and blue and moving restlessly.

There, beside the sea, the air was different. Softer. Laced with salt. Something loosened in her chest as she breathed it in.

Jake MacLeod, the captain of her brother-in-law’s birlinn and her escort those past two weeks, brought their small party to a halt near the edge of the village. They were not far from the shoreline beside a low, sturdy, rough-stone building, topped with a weathered thatched roof that had seen better days. That was the only tavern the village could boast.

She dismounted stiffly, her muscles protesting after so many days in the saddle. She walked on unsteady legs to a narrow wooden bench by the wall

After lowering herself onto the seat she stretched her legs, pressing her heels briefly into the earth, reassuring herself it was truly solid. The journey from Edinburgh had been far longer and more arduous than she had imagined when she first agreed to it. The lodgings along the way had been sparse, cold and uncomfortable. The meals at best had been indifferent, at worst… she preferred not to think on it.

She had endured it all because she must – because there was nowhere else for her to go.

For several moments she lost herself in the rhythmic lap of waves against the shore and the raucous cries of gulls wheeling overhead.

Her gaze traveled across the water’s vastness, the deep blue broken only by shifting light and the shadow of distant hills.

The captain, a tall, broad-shouldered Highlander with a fiery thatch of red hair and a beard of the same hue, followed her gaze and lifted a hand.

“There,” he said simply. “What ye see before ye lass, is the Sound of Sleat and the hills beyond are the Isle of Skye.”

Her heart lifted. Skye. The word itself held the promise of her journey’s end.

“Won’t be long now, Lady Selene,” Jake said. “We’ll board tomorrow. With any luck, if the weather holds, we’ll be across the sound and along the coast well before nightfall.”

He gestured toward the wide harbor where two large birlinns rode at anchor, their dark hulls steady despite the water’s gentle motion, their masts etched starkly against the sky.

“Thank you, Captain. I am grateful. I am very much looking forward to seeing my sister again. And her husband.”

“Och,” he agreed. “I daresay. It’s a long road ye’ve traveled.”

Her thoughts drifted back over every mile of it.

Back to green, orderly, Hertfordshire where life moved to predictable rhythms. She had been born Selene Montgomery, daughter of a viscount, raised in a house where servants spoke softly and no one ever needed to explain themselves twice. Her days had been filled with books, measured lessons in deportment, music and language. Civilization, her mother had called it. Refinement.

Edinburgh had been her last taste of comfort. There, at least, she had rested properly, exchanged her travel-worn dress for something cleaner that reminded her who she had been. She had joined the company of Lady Margaret a distant relative to her brother-in-law Laird Halvard MacLeod of Raasay. Margaret was a woman of wit and warmth, whose presence had eased Selene’s nerves and made the city feel less foreign.

She had traveled by coach from Edinburgh to Glasgow, but after passing through that city, the journey had become an endless ordeal. River crossings that chilled her to the bone. Lodgings that offered little beyond a roof and a hearth.

And then the Highlands themselves – magnificent and merciless.

Lakes – that the Scots insisted on calling ‘Lochs’ –stretched alongside the track, bordered by dark forests of Scots pine. Though November had stripped many branches bare, the land retained a stark, austere, beauty. Snow-dusted peaks loomed in the distance, dwarfing everything beneath them, as though daring unwary travelers such as herself to turn back.

“We’re in the Highlands,” Jake had remarked. “Very different affair from what ye’re used tae in England.”

There had been many days when Selene would have given anything to be back on her father’s estate, riding her own mare across familiar fields rather than perched atop a shaggy Highland pony, jolted along rutted tracks the Scots had the audacity to call roads. England was so orderly by comparison. Neat. Contained. This land sprawled, untamed and vast, answering to no one.

She leaned back, the bench cool beneath her palms, and turned her gaze back toward the sea. She had heard so much about the islands in the letters she’d received from her sister Elsie, who had chosen to be with her Highland laird and a life Selene could barely imagine. Soon she would see her again

She closed her eyes briefly.

English voices startled her back to wakefulness.

An older couple approached along the path, both ruddy-cheeked and warmly dressed, their boots scuffed with mud. They looked well pleased with themselves, as though the Highlands were an adventure rather than a trial.

“Oh, how delightful to come upon another lady,” the woman exclaimed flashing a wide smile at Selene. “Let me introduce myself. I am Lady Charlotte Ashcombe, and this is my husband, Sir Giles. We’ve been touring the Highlands for over a week now and have scarcely encountered another lady. I can tell by your charming gown that you are English. It is such a pleasure.”

She laughed lightly. “After all these sights, my dear, I can still hardly understand a word these Highlanders say.”

Selene smiled politely in silent agreement.

“Even when they speak English,” Lady Charlotte continued, “it sounds like another language – tangled with unfamiliar sounds, peppered with strange words I scarcely understand.

“Are you staying at the inn?” the lady continued. “We are, for one last night. Tomorrow, we return to Edinburgh, and then on to Penrith, where our estate lies.”

“Oh,” Selene murmured, scarcely concealing her envy.

Back to England. To familiarity. To ease.

She sorely missed her childhood home. But her father was gone now, and the estate firmly settled upon Uncle Frederick, his capable wife, and their six children. He had been kind enough but his life was full. His household loud with children, his responsibilities many.

There was no true place for Selene there anymore. She had become an extra chair at the table, a presence altogether lacking in purpose.

This journey, she reminded herself, was not exile. It was simply… moving forward with her life.

“My dear,” the lady said brightly, “have you eaten here? It astonishes me that these people survive on what they serve for meals.”

Selene laughed softly. “I was told the fish is excellent – herrings, fresh from the sea, the catch of the local fisher-folk. I rather hope that is what we’ll be offered.”

“Heaven forbid they should leave the heads on,” Lady Ashcombe shuddered. “And that awful thing they eat. Haggis – have you been subjected to that yet?”

“Not yet,” Selene replied with a grin.

“A dreadful concoction,” the lady declared.

Her husband cleared his throat. “I rather enjoy the haggis,” he said mildly.

Lady Charlotte sniffed. “Dear Giles,” she said fondly, “You’ve never had a refined palate.”

“And the whisky…” he added, somewhat emboldened, “is excellent.”

“You drink far too much of it.”

Captain Jake stepped in smoothly. “If ye would care tae follow me inside, me lady, I’ve secured rooms fer the night.”

“In a moment,” Selene said. “I should like to take a short walk and stretch my legs. We sail in the morning and I wish to feel solid ground beneath my feet while I can.”

She rose, brushing dust and fallen leaves from her skirts.

The Lady Charlotte hesitated. “You must be crossing the Sound of Sleat.”

“Yes.”

The lady’s expression changed at once. Her mouth drew down and her eyes widened “Oh. How dreadful.”

Selene frowned. “Why so?”

“Because those waters belong to him,” the woman lowered her voice to a near whisper. “The Brute of Sleat.”

The words fell heavily between them.

“Word has it that there’s a laird,” she continued, glancing around as though he might hear her. “Kenneth MacDonald. A monster, they say. A murderer. They claim his ships prowl the Sound like pirates, that no one dares sail without fear of crossing his path.”

Her husband coughed sharply. “My dear Charlotte, that will do. We have no acquaintance with this man.”

“But everyone speaks of him,” Lady Ashcombe insisted. “They are quite terrified. They say he rules his lands like a tyrant, that women vanish, that no one who crosses him escapes unscathed.”

Selene had gone very still. The man’s name held a familiar ring yet she could not place it. She must ask Jake if he knew of such a fearsome man.

“My dear,” Sir Giles said firmly, “you must not frighten the young lady with gossip.”

“I am not affrighted by gossip,” Selene said mildly, schooling her expression into unconcern. “I do hope you enjoy the rest of your journey back to Penrith.”

As the couple walked away, she turned her gaze back toward the anchored birlinns, their dark shapes suddenly less reassuring. Across that water lay Skye. And across it also lay the lands of a man whispered of in fear.

Selene lingered by the shore until the light began to soften, the sun lowering toward the west in a wash of pale, wintry, gold.

She did not know how long she stood there, listening to the waves and the gulls, letting the wind tangle loose strands of her hair. At last, the chill seeped through her cloak, and she turned back toward the tavern, the weight of the coming journey settling more firmly upon her shoulders.

Inside, the inn was warmer than she’d expected. A fire crackled at one end of the common room, sending sparks up the chimney and filling the air with the scent of peat smoke. The familiar murmur of voices wrapped her senses.

Selene ate quietly, grateful for the simple meal set before her – a fish stew, as she had hoped, fresh and plainly cooked. When she had finished, Captain Jake made sure she was shown safely upstairs, her trunk carried behind her.

Her chamber was modest but clean. A narrow bed stood against the wall, its woolen blankets neatly folded. Selene dismissed the maid and sat for a long moment without moving, hands folded in her lap.

Only then did the quiet descend.

Her thoughts turned to Hertfordshire. To her father’s study, lined with books and warmed by the afternoon sun. Of the sound of his voice, steady and measured, calling her in to discuss some small matter of estate business as though her opinion truly mattered, and that Selene’s place in the world was secure.

That certainty had vanished when he had died. And then Elsie had gone.

Her sister’s letters had arrived at just the right moment. Warm, affectionate, full of the wild beauty of the islands and her home on the Isle of Raasay, and the strength of the man she had married. Come to us, her sister had written. You will always have a place here.

Selene rose and crossed to the window, peering out into the dark. Somewhere beyond the village, beyond the water, lay the promise of a new life.

That night, sleep came unevenly.

She dreamed of water – not the gentle, rhythmic sea she had watched from the shore, but something darker and unsettled. She stood upon a narrow strip of land, the ground beneath her feet slick and shifting, as though it might give way at any moment. Mist curled around her, obscuring the horizon.

Something moved beyond it.

A man’s shape rose from the water, tall and indistinct, his outline blurred by distance and rain. She could not see his face, only the suggestion of a commanding presence. The wind pulled at her skirts, urging her closer to the edge.

She woke with a start and sat up at once, her heart racing, the echo of the sea still roaring in her ears.

She drew in a steady breath. “Foolishness,” she murmured into the quiet.

She pressed a hand to her brow and allowed herself a wry smile. A product of overheard gossip and too much travel, nothing more. Dreams were easily led astray – especially after weeks of rough roads, unfamiliar landscapes, and endless talk of wild Highland ways. The Highlands, she suspected, had a way of unsettling the imagination.

She lay back and closed her eyes, determined not to indulge it.

Morning arrived, iron-grey and cold.

Selene dressed briskly, refusing to give the night’s nonsense another thought. She was not a child to be frightened by shadows and stories. Monsters belonged in nursery tales, not in a civilized age governed by law and reason. Whatever people said, no man could be half so dreadful as rumor painted him.

When she descended to the common room, the inn was already stirring. The air smelled of bread and strong tea, the fire newly stoked. Outside, the wind had strengthened, tugging at cloaks and snapping at loose fabric.

After she’d fortified herself with two cups of tea, a slice of oatbread and jam, Captain Jake met her at the door. “We’ll sail as soon as the tide allows,” he said. “The wind’s shifted.”

Selene nodded, following him, keeping her stride firm.

The sea was darker now, its surface rolling and restless, but she lifted her chin and regarded it calmly. Men moved along the shore with quiet efficiency, preparing the birlinns. Ropes creaked. Sails stirred.

She walked closer to the water’s edge, the pebbles crunching beneath her boots.

Across the Sound of Sleat, the island rose beneath the heavy sky – stark and beautiful. Somewhere beyond those hills lay her sister and the life she was to begin anew. The rest, she told herself, was nonsense.

She kept thinking about the English couple and her dream.

So Laird Kenneth MacDonald, to whom he brother-in-law had asked to bring a missive, was known as The Brute of Sleat.

A ridiculous epithet, surely. The kind of thing that was born of isolation and long winters, passed from mouth to mouth until it took on a life of its own. Selene had been raised on reason, on measured judgment. She would not allow herself to be bewitched by Scottish superstition.

A fisherman nearby, busy with a net, paused when he saw her. “Ye’re bound fer Skye?” he asked bluntly.

“Yes.”

He hesitated. “Mind the Sound. Those waters have a memory fer blood.”

She shuddered at his words, but before she could ask what he meant, he had moved on.

Jake was frowning slightly but made no remark.

She drew a breath. This was merely a crossing. Nothing more.

And yet, as the wind swept in from the sound and the birlinn strained against its tether, the sea seemed to wait – patient and watchful. She removed her boots and woolen stockings, hoisted up her skirt, and stepped into the icy water to wade the few steps to the waiting dinghy. As Jake pushed the tiny craft into deeper waters, and the man at the oars began to ply the waves, Selene was aware she was poised at the edge of a life she did not yet understand.

She did not look back.

 

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