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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