Previews

Chapter One

Scotland November 1720

Standing by the rail on the big birlinn as it raced over the white-capped sea, Lady Selene Montgomery breathed deeply of the salty air. The breeze had sharpened, and she tucked a wayward strand of her rich chestnut hair behind her ear and pulled the hood of her cloak close.

She had grown awfully tired of travelling. It had been many weeks since she’d left her crumbling estate in Hertfordshire and boarded the northbound coach. It had been a slow and uncomfortable journey as the coach lumbered along the rutted and muddy stretch of road all the way to Scotland.

Her mind roamed back to her first taste of Scotland. She’d stayed for two weeks in a charming villa on the outskirts of Edinburgh with a distant relative of her brother-in-law, Laird Halvard MacLeod of Raasay. It had been new and exciting. Edinburgh and its university were alive with intellectual, philosophical discussions, and there was much talk of new discoveries in science and medicine.

But, alas, once her small party had departed from the city and entered the Highlands, things had taken a turn for the worse. The road was little more than a rough-hewn track where no coach could pass. The Highlanders were ruffians, kilt-clad giants who spoke either in a foreign language she did not understand, or some kind of garbled English that was almost as difficult to comprehend. They bore no resemblance to the elegantly dressed Scots she’d met in the city.

And she couldn’t even contemplate the terrible food they consumed.

After more than ten days on horseback, they reached the coast at Mallaig and, by the time they embarked on Halvard’s birlinn for the last leg of the journey, she was aching from the tip of her head to her toes. She could scarcely curb her impatience as they grew closer to their final destination, the Isle of Raasay.

But before she could at last be reunited with her dear younger sister, Elsie, they had to briefly break their journey so that an important missive from Laird Halvard to the Laird Kenneth MacDonald at Duntulm, could be delivered.

From there they would finally sail on to Raasay. Mayhap she would be with Elsie in only two- or three-days’ time.

If I don’t go quite mad before that.

Selene lifted her head, the cold wind swirling her cloak about her. To the west, a bank of ominous clouds had gathered, darkening the sky and threatening a storm.

Jake MacLeod, Halvard’s trusted advisor, approached her. “We’re in fer a stretch of bad weather, milady. Mayhap it would be best if ye took shelter.” He pointed to the small wooden cabin at the stern. “There’s a lit brazier in there where ye could warm yer hands.”

She greeted his suggestion with a smile. “Thank you, Jake. I believe I am warm enough with my cloak and wool petticoat.” She held up her hands, “And my warm, knitted mittens.”

Jake nodded. “Very well, Lady Selene. But please, take care.”

After he’d left her, she leaned on the railing, her mind travelling ahead to her reunion with her sister. It had been many months since they’d been together and now Elsie was a married woman, in charge of her own Scottish castle.

Despite Jake’s warning, the squall took her by surprise. Before she could hasten to the shelter, the sudden rush of wind and rain had tossed away her hood and plastered her hair to her head. In a flash, rivulets of rain went pouring down her cheeks. The coastline was no longer visible behind the sheeting rain.

She looked around, hoping for someone to escort her from the prow as the ship was rolling and she could hardly take a steady step.

Buffeted by the sudden storm, some of the men were frantically hauling on the sails while others heaved at their oars, endeavoring to guide the ship as the waves rose. Selene clutched the railing, clinging on with all her might as the vessel was hit by a giant wave across the prow and she was deluged with salt water.

A bolt of lightning across the deck followed almost at once by an ear-splitting roll of thunder overhead jolted her heart and robbed her of breath. Then came another, and another. It was as if the heavens were assailing them with hellfire and cannons. Trembling, but determined not to show her fear, Selene pressed her hands to her ears and stumbled toward the shelter in the stern as the ship was enclosed in a white curtain of mist and rain.

With rain stinging her cheeks, Selene squinted into the shifting grey ahead. The storm had swallowed the horizon, yet through the dense veil of mist she became aware that a long, narrow shape was forming. Another ship, hardly more than a ghostly presence emerging from the gloom, was cutting fast across the darkened water.

She blinked.

Are the waves playing tricks on me?

But, no, there was another ship, dangerously close. The strange ship surged forward with uncanny speed, its bow rising and falling like some great beast stalking its prey.

What unsettled her most was its starkness. It bore no clan colors. No banners were snapping from its mast in the wind. There was nothing to proclaim its allegiance or its intent. It was a mysterious vessel in waters where every Highland sailor was born with a clan to his name and every ship proclaimed its clan ownership.

A chill that had nothing to do with the icy rain coiled through her belly.

What is this about?

Sudden thoughts of pirates and privateers flashed with terrifying clarity through her mind. Her breath was high in her chest, almost catching in her throat as she forced her shaking hands to unclench from the railing she’d been clinging to. She willed her breathing to steady, but then the other ship turned.

Not away, but towards them.

She glanced around. A shudder seemed to ripple through Halvard’s men as the dangerous reality of their situation dawned, far too late. Anxious, concerned voices rose. The air thickened with panic. Someone shouted an order that was drowned instantly by a peal of thunder.

Too close now, the stranger’s bow cut across their path, and in a burst of violent motion, heavy iron hooks arced through the rain and slammed onto the birlinn’s side with a sickening scrape.

Before Selene could even cry out, men were swarming over the rail, their boots thudding onto the deck, each of them armed with long blades that glinted pale and wicked beneath the storm’s fractured light.

Chaos erupted around her.

Her guards surged forward, trying desperately to form a shield between her and the raiders, but the attackers came in a relentless tide and she was forced to stand, watching the tumult and the carnage. The clashing of steel – sharp, ringing, fierce and terrible – along with the heartrending cries of the wounded and dying, were carried away by the howling wind. Rain sprayed across the deck in blinding sheets. Men slipped, grappled and fell. She saw Jake wielding his sword, his flintlock pistol still in his belt for he’d had no chance to draw and fire it. He fought bravely but numbers overcame him and he went down under a shocking surge of at least four men. One by one, Halvard’s loyal crew were cut down or driven to their knees and slaughtered.

This cannot be happening.

The birlinn lurched sharply under the sudden weight of the alarming number of bodies and the fury of the waves. Selene staggered, reaching out blindly. But before she could grasp the nearest rope to steady herself, a rough hand seized her arm in an iron grip. A raider – tall and broad, his face half-hidden in the deluge – yanked her toward the mast.

“Let me go!” she gasped, struggling to wrench her arm free. He gave her a mocking laugh, his hold on her arm tightening cruelly.

The storm roared in her ears. The deck spun beneath her feet.

Then – another horn blast split the fog. Deeper. Stronger. Terrifyingly close.

Through the writhing mist, a second vessel broke into view, scarcely visible through the gloom, flying a flag of black slashed with deep red.

The man dragging Selene hesitated for the barest moment as the impact from the other ship jolted against the side of the birlinn.

It was enough. Selene’s fierce instinct gave her courage. She twisted sharply beneath the man’s grip, kicking out, catching a glancing blow to his shin. Desperate to free herself, she wrenched her arm away from his grasp. As he reached for her again, she managed only to stumble backward, buying a breath’s worth of distance before he lunged again. This time he lifted his blade.

She cried out.

“Keep away from me, you brute.” Her scream rang out loud and long, penetrating the sounds of the onslaught. She looked around, frantically seeking another foothold, somewhere she could escape the huge man’s reach. But alone she couldn’t do anything. Was there no one to come to her aid?

“Help me!” she shouted into the mêlée.

At the very moment the man raised his vicious sword to strike her down, a loud, commanding voice came out of the darkness, causing him to pause, his arms still holding the sword aloft.

“Lower yer sword, ye damned bully. Ye’ll nae treat an English lady with such disrespect in the Highlands.”

The words, as low and deep as the rumble of distant thunder, came from behind Selene. The raider’s eyes widened and before she could turn toward the speaker, a blur of motion descended upon the man. Steel met flesh with brutal force. No quarter was given as the newcomer rounded on her attacker brandishing his fierce sword in a furious onslaught.

It was over in mere seconds. Despite his great size, her attacker was no match for the stranger’s skill and strength. It was clear he had no chance against this new warrior. She staggered away just as her attacker tumbled to the deck, blood spreading in a dark pool, joining the stream caused by the torrents of rain.

She looked up, heart hammering, catching sight of the owner of the voice.

He stood over the fallen raider, chest rising with measured breaths, a sword in hand already wet with the storm and battle alike. His dark hair clung to his brow, he was tall and broad, and she caught a glimpse of a stern and angular profile. Clad in a sodden tartan kilt he looked every inch the Highland warrior that she had once believed only existed in exaggerated tales.

“I am at yer service me lady,” came the same rich tones as before, calm and unruffled despite the carnage surrounding them.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. The storm raged between them, rain running down Selene’s face like tears. She had never witnessed such violence at such close range, not even on the roughest Highland roads.

When he stepped toward her, instinct shifted her backward. Her boots slid on the slick deck, but she managed to put distance between.

Her rescuer paused in his advance.

“There’s nay cause for fear.” His voice was raw but steady. “I’m nae a man tae harm a woman.”

Trembling, Selene swallowed hard, working to still her ragged breathing. “What you did…” She glanced at the prone form lying on the deck before her. “… was brutal.”

Something like a grim smile tugged at his mouth. “Aye, lass. I’ve ne’er claimed I’m nae a brute, yet I believe ye owe me yer life.”

The deck swayed beneath her, tilting so sharply she had to brace a hand against the nearest beam. Voices shouted around them in a torrent of Gaelic she could not understand. More men in dark tartan poured across the deck, their shields bearing a Highland crest she did not recognise depicting an armored hand holding a cross with the words ‘Per mare per terras’. Her knowledge of Latin told her it meant ‘By sea and by land’.

She searched her memory. Was that not the crest of the MacDonald Clan?

Armed, soaked, powerful, a formation of burly Highlanders drew up to surround her like a second storm.

Her rescuer lifted a hand to keep his men at bay, granting her a measure of space. But his eyes never left hers.

A ripple of something hot and warm rippled through her as their eyes met. She straightened her spine. That wild man would not see her weak and vulnerable. For all that, she could scarce keep her gaze from roaming the breadth of his shoulders and his strong arms as he stood tall before her, a half-smile on his lips.

He was a man like no other she’d clapped eyes on in all her travels. Or, for that matter, at any time during her calm and ladylike days in Hertfordshire.

“Who are ye?” he asked, “and why daes yer ship bear nay colors?”

She tried to answer, but the words caught in her throat.

A broad-shouldered Highlander with storm-grey eyes, the man’s second-in-command if she had to guess, stepped forward.

“A birlinn without colors draws suspicions,” he said plainly. Frowning deeply, he turned toward his companion. “Think on it, me laird. I’ve heard rumors that, since the rebellion, King George will confiscate the lands of any clan if he hears of conflict. There are many spies among us, itching fer the king’s favor tae claim our lands.” He turned his gaze momentarily to Selene. “With the unrest all through the Sound of Sleat and trouble between our traders and fishermen and the men of Raasay, she could be an English spy. Someone sent in the king’s pay ready tae make trouble fer us.”

Selene stiffened. “A spy?”

Her rescuer’s gaze hardened as he turned to her. “Aye. Ye need tae prove me wrong, lass. Ye’re English, sailing on a birlinn bearing nay flag. Why should we believe yer story?”

She drew herself as tall as she could and straightened her shoulders. “I am Lady Selene Montgomery, and who might you be, sir, to accuse me in such a reckless manner.”

“I am Callum MacDonald, first sword to the Laird MacDonald of Sleat.” His tone shifted, as recognition dawned in on Selene. “Mayhap ye’ve already heard of me laird?”

Her blood chilled. “Laird Kenneth MacDonald? The Brute of Sleat?” she whispered before she could stop herself.

Laird Kenneth’s jaw flexed and he flinched as if the mention of the title struck him like a thrown stone.

Selene clutched the small silver and pearl necklace at her throat – her mother’s, worn thin by years of her touch – and struggled to draw breath against the rising panic constricting her chest.

“You’re correct. I am English. But I… I’m not a spy,” she managed. “I’m travelling to the Isle of Raasay, to meet with the Lady Elsie, my sister. She is married to Halvard MacLeod, Laird of Raasay. We carried a message from him to you, Laird MacDonald, but—”

Kenneth listened to her words and nodded. “Where is this message ye speak of?”

She shook her head. As far as she could recall it was Jake MacLeod who had carried her brother-in-law’s sealed message. “I don’t know where it is. Mayhap if you search—”

Kenneth interrupted her, turning to his advisor. “Tell the men tae search fer evidence that will prove ae me this lass is who she claims tae be.”

Selene glanced down – and immediately wished she had not done so.

Bodies. Too many. Strewn across the planks like broken dolls were all that remained of Halvard’s loyal soldiers. She shuddered catching sight of Jake MacLeod’s prone form among them. Hot tears sprang into her eyes. These were men she had travelled beside for weeks, shared meals with, spoken and laughed with, grown fond of, despite the hardships of their journey.

A nauseating wave of grief washed through her and she bowed her head.

Several MacDonald warriors searched the bodies scattered across the deck, roughly turning each one. Then one man paused and held something up to the torchlight. It was a torn fragment of parchment, still bearing its wax seal stamped with Halvard’s crest. Selene felt a rush of despair. The note was gone.

Murmurs rippled through the watching men and she heard the word “Raasay” uttered more than once.

“See. I speak the truth,” she cried urgently. “You must believe me. I am no spy. That is a scrap of the legal parchment that was to be delivered. We were bound to Duntulm Castle to present it to you, sir.” She glanced at Kenneth, her eyes silently imploring him to believe her tale.

Her voice was drowned out by a terrible groan from the hull as a massive wave struck the ship broadside. The entire vessel shuddered violently, pitching men against masts and railings. Ropes whipped through the air. Shouts rose anew as the MacDonald warriors scrambled to secure their lines and prepare for transfer back to their own birlinn.

Selene flung out her arms in a bid to maintain her balance as the birlinn tipped alarmingly.

“Come,” Kenneth said, reaching for her arm as gently as the storm allowed. “You cannae stay aboard. Our birlinn rides steadier. I’ll see ye safe.”

She let him guide her, stepping over coils of rope and slippery planks as his men hastened to throw a boarding plank between the two ships. The wind screamed through the rigging. Rain hammered against her hood.

Just a few paces more.

Heart in her mouth, shaking all over, she went to step across the plank. At that very moment a monstrous wave caught the birlinn, raising it and slamming it down.

A violent, wrenching motion tore through the deck. The plank rolled into the deep. Selene’s foot slipped and her hand flew out clutching at the railing. To her horror the timber splintered beneath her grasp, causing her to lose her balance entirely.

Pitching forward, her feet went from under her and she uttered a desperate cry which was swallowed instantly by the storm. She flew forward, over the shattered rail and into the furious, churning sea below.

When she struck the water, it felt as if she was plunging into a wall of ice.

Cold seized her lungs. Her cloak dragged her under almost at once. The world above vanished into a blur of grey as the brutal, unforgiving current seized her, wrapping around her like cruel hands, drawing her inexorably into the depths.

Selene tried to kick upward, but the weight of her sodden clothing pulled her deeper still.

The storm’s roar dulled beneath the surface, replaced by a low, muffled boom that vibrated through her bones.

She struggled, bringing all her strength to bear, her hands reaching hopelessly for the surface – straining for air, for light, for anything. As the blackness claimed her, she became dimly aware of her face being pressed against rough fabric, and strong hands on her waist.

Then she knew nothing else as the dark, icy Sea of the Hebrides swallowed her whole.

Chapter Two

When the blackness finally peeled away, Selene woke to the glow of a fire.

It was not gentle warmth, but fierce heat around her, beneath her, above her, bringing life back to her almost frozen form. A deep, rhythmic rocking travelled through her body, as though she were being carried upon some steady current.

She blinked, making out very little through her hazy vision. Overhead, wooden beams flickered in and out of focus. The low groan of a hull shifting in the storm reached her ears. She was no longer in the water. She was on another ship, no longer on the birlinn that had been her refuge.

She was somewhere else.

Someone murmured nearby. A calm, deep voice she remembered – low and steady but, unmistakably in command.

Kenneth MacDonald.

Her awareness wavered again, drawing her between layers of sensation: the weight of a heavy woolen blanket tucked around her, the faint taste of salt on her lips, the distant echo of men shouting orders outside. But above all, she felt hands – large, calloused – adjusting the blanket around her with surprising care.

She dimly remembered his voice, taut with an urgency she had never heard in a man’s tone before. “Strip the wet off her,” he’d growled, “she’ll freeze else.”

Now, the evidence clung to her. Her gown and skirts were gone, replaced only by the thin linen of her shift beneath the blanket. Heat flooded her cheeks at the realization, but she was too weak to lift her head, too heavy-limbed to protest.

“Callum,” Kenneth said quietly, but his voice carried the iron weight of a command. “Make certain the men stay away from this cabin.”

“Aye.” Callum’s voice, lower and rougher, in response. The sound of boots thudded on the planks outside. “They’ll nae come near.”

“Good. The lass needs quiet.”

“But Kenneth—” Callum’s voice again.

“What now?”

“D’you truly think it was Aidan? This reeks of his daeing.”

A long silence followed. Selene’s senses drifted, but even in her half-dreaming state she felt the shift in the air – something dark and heavy, that brought the past into the present.

“Aidan’s behind everything,” Kenneth said at last. “He’ll never rest. Nae after what happened three years ago.”

The weight of those words lingered like the storm clouds outside, thick and brewing with the threat of something far greater. But before she could fathom their meaning, the world tilted again and she vanished again into darkness.

***

She woke abruptly to motion.

A rhythmic sway – gentler than the violent rocking of the ship, but firm enough to jostle her senses. Her cheek rested against something solid.

She inhaled sharply, her nostrils filling with new scents: grass, leather, and a familiar smell, warm and alive.

She was on a horse.

Not astride properly, but seated between a pair of strong thighs, her back pressed flush against a broad chest. A strong arm lay firmly across her stomach, anchoring her in place with absolute, effortless control.

She gasped and jerked upright – or attempted to. Leather tightened across her wrists. Her arms were secured in front of her with a short tether, preventing sudden movement.

“What in the name of all the saints in heaven—?”

The man behind her did not flinch. Not so much as a tiny shift of muscle.

“You’ll fall if ye dae that.” His voice rumbled through his chest, deep enough that she felt it against her spine before she even processed the words. “Sit still.”

Selene twisted as far as the tether allowed, and there he was – Kenneth MacDonald. For the first time she saw him clearly. And dammit. He was far too handsome, with that straight imperious nose and those cheekbones as sharp as blades. He was looking down at her with blue-grey eyes and a most infuriatingly calm expression. It was, for all the world, as if riding across a storm-soaked stretch of Highland terrain with a half-conscious Englishwoman bound to him was a perfectly ordinary occurrence.

And, dear God, perhaps it was.

“Untie me at once,” she snapped, heat flaring with rage. Then as she realized she was in nothing but her shift beneath the heavy plaid he had wrapped around her the heat rushed to her cheeks. She tugged futilely at the wool, unable to reach the leather straps around her wrists. “How dare you bind me like this. Put me down. Now!”

Kenneth raised a thick, dark eyebrow. “On yer feet? In this mud? Bare as ye are beneath that blanket?” His mouth curved slightly yet his eyes were steely, with no hint of amusement. “Nay, lass. Ye’re me prisoner until I learn more about you and satisfy myself that ye’re nae a spy.”

“No?” she repeated, disbelief breaking through her shock. “You cannot simply—”

“I can,” he said, utterly unbothered by her fury. “And I am.”

She struggled to pull away from him again, only to collide with his unyielding chest. He did not shift. Not an inch. She might as well have tried to dislodge a mountainside.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, wriggling to gain space between them. “Must you sit so… so damned casually?”

“I’m sitting as I always dae.” He adjusted the reins with a fluid roll of his shoulders that brought her even closer. “It’s you that’s flailing about like a hen who’s lost her head.”

Her indignation burned hotter than the embarrassment prickling her skin. She tried to lean forward, away from him, but the horse jolted suddenly, and she nearly pitched sideways.

Kenneth tightened his hold at once, his forearm banding across her middle, drawing her securely back against him.

“Ye see?” His breath brushed her ear. “Ye’d be on the ground if I let ye go.”

“That is not…this is not…” Words tangled hopelessly on her tongue, partly from indignation, partly from the awareness of his hard body pressed along the length of hers. No man had ever held her so closely.

Her breath hitched in her throat.

“Ye ken the name I am called,” he said simply. Not boastful. Not ashamed. Simply stating a truth.

“I believe many in Scotland know you as the Brute of Sleat,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Mayhap even some in England. You’re feared.”

“Is that so?” he murmured, unreadable.

“Yes,” Her voice trembled with cold and something else she could not name. Not fear. Excitement? Anticipation? “And now I… I… find myself tied to you, wearing scarcely more than my shift, on a horse, in the middle of nowhere.”

“Ye forgot soaking wet and half frozen,” he added. “That’s an important part of the story.”

She glared at him. But save for a tiny flicker at the corner of his wide mouth – which could have been amusement – there was no response. He was impervious to her ire.

He faced forward, guiding the horse with the ease of a man born to command beast and land alike. The plaid around her tightened slightly as he adjusted it, protecting her from the icy wind.

“We ride fer Duntulm.” He urged the horse forward and their pace increased. “Once there, ye and I will speak together and ye will tell me exactly who ye are, where ye’ve come from, and just what business ye had on a ship with no colors sailing in me waters.”

Selene swallowed hard, raising her tethered hands to clutch her mother’s necklace at her throat. By some miracle it had survived her near murder and near drowning and was still in its place. A comfort, always.

But nothing could still her awareness of the steadiness, the strength, the unsettling calm of the powerful man holding her. And nothing could still the undeniable crackle of tension that flickered between them like the remnants of lightning after a storm.

Indeed. He was her enemy.

They were enemies who had been pressed entirely too close together.

And, despite every grain of commonsense in Selene’s body telling her to beware, she was forced to acknowledge that between them was the faintest spark of something else. Something she’d never felt before, something she did not understand.

How likely are you to recommend this preview to a friend?

Not at all Likely Extremely Likely
0	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10

Submit

Best selling books of Kenna

★★★★★ 266 ratings

This is the story of Gillian, an adventurous English lady who finds herself captured by a mysterious and alluring Highlander. This Highlander will do whatever it takes to save his people from hunger, even abduct the daughter of his enemy. But life seldom goes as planned. What will happen when the Highlander starts falling for Gillian? And will her feelings or her logic prevail in this peculiar turn of events?

Read the book

★★★★★ 208 ratings

This is the story of Julia, an intelligent English lady who runs away to escape her woes and finds herself in the keep of an enticing Highlander. This Highlander, as handsome as he may be, has serious economic troubles, and only a miracle can save him. But perhaps one's answer is closer than he thinks. How will he help her face the past that is haunting her? And how will she save him?

Read the book

★★★★★ 213 ratings

This is the story of Gale, an adventurous English lady who runs away to escape her murderous mother and finds herself in the company of an alluring Highlander. There she is called to change her ways, and he helps her see the world from a different point of view. But her past is catching up with her. How will she elude her mother? And will this be the only obstacle in their relationship?

Read the book

Elsie Montgomery should not have left the estate alone. She knew that now, with a clarity that came far too late.

The evening had been mild, the kind of soft English dusk that lulled one into foolish confidence. The sky was brushed with pale rose and fading gold, the air carrying the scent of damp earth and early spring blossoms. The Montgomery estate lay behind her, its windows glowing faintly through the trees, safe and orderly and close enough to touch.

She had only meant to go for a walk.

Selene had been restless all afternoon, pacing, fretting, and Elsie wanted to give her some time to herself. After all, Selene always seemed to be at her best when she had some time to breathe on her own, to stay alone with her thoughts.

She could have simply gone to her chambers or any of the other myriad rooms in the estate. But instead, she had chosen to go out of its bounds—and out of its safety.

“I’ll be back before the lamps are lit,” Elsie had told herself, drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

She had believed it.

The path curved away from the house, narrow but well-trodden, bordered by low stone walls and tangled hawthorn. Crickets began their evening song as the light thinned, the sound steady and comforting. Elsie walked with measured steps, her gloved fingers brushing the tops of the hedges, her thoughts drifting toward nothing more dangerous than what Selene might say when she returned.

Halfway down the lane, she slowed.

Something felt wrong, though she could not pinpoint what that might be. The air seemed heavier here, the birds suddenly quiet. Even the wind had stilled, as though the world was holding its breath.

Elsie stopped dead in her tracks, looking around at her surroundings, trying to see if she could find anything noteworthy in the dimming light.

“Hello?” she called softly, feeling foolish even as unease crept up her spine.

There was no answer.

She took another step forward, her senses sharper now, her ears straining for anything she might hear, her eyes darting about her for any sign of danger.

A sound came from behind her—footsteps, too measured to be accidental.

Elsie turned sharply, only to find the lane empty behind her.

Her heart beat faster. She told herself it was nothing; a farmhand, perhaps, or a traveler. Maybe even her imagination running ahead of her.

She turned back toward the path, eager to return to the estate, to the safety of the walls, suffocating as they were—

—and a hand clamped over her mouth.

The force of it knocked the breath from her lungs. Elsie screamed, but the sound was swallowed by skin and leather, her cry reduced to a muffled gasp. An arm locked around her waist, crushing her against a hard chest as her feet left the ground.

“Quiet,” a man hissed in her ear, his breath hot and foul. “Unless you want tae die here.”

She kicked, wild and desperate, her boots scraping uselessly against the packed earth. Her nails clawed at the arm around her, drawing a sharp curse from him, but his grip only tightened.

Another figure emerged from the hedge, a shadow pulling itself free of the dusk.

“No, please—” she tried to say, her words breaking against the hand over her mouth.

“Shouldn’t be walking alone,” one of them said, almost conversationally. “Pretty thing like ye.”

Rage flared through her fear. Couldn’t they see she was a lady? Couldn’t they see they had no right speaking to her like this?

She bit down hard on the hand clamped around her mouth. The man shouted, jerking back, and she twisted free just enough to stumble forward. Hope surged—

—and died as the other grabbed her hair from behind, yanking her head back painfully.

“Enough,” the first man snapped. “We dinnae get paid more fer bruises.”

A cloth was shoved over her face. The smell hit her instantly—sharp, sweet, choking—but she couldn’t hold her breath for long. She thrashed, shaking her head, fighting with everything she had left, making it as difficult as she could for the man holding her.

“Stop!” she gasped. “My sister will—”

“Yer sister willnae find ye,” the man said flatly. “Nay one will.”

The two men held her firmly, giving her no space to move. She couldn’t escape their grasp; she couldn’t even escape the rag that was pressed over her nose and mouth, unable now to move her head at all. They had immobilized her, and the more she tried to get out of their grip, the more she hurt herself, her joints strained, her skin chafing.

The world tilted. The hedgerows around her blurred and the sky fractured into spinning color and shadow as her strength drained from her limbs.

The last thing Elsie saw was the faint glow of Montgomery estate through the trees—so far it might as well have been another world.

Then darkness took her, deep and relentless, the kind that would not let her resurface for hours.

***

Elsie woke to pain and motion. Her wrists burned, bound tightly with rough rope that bit into her skin. The ground under her jolted and swayed, every movement sending fresh waves of nausea through her body.

Wood pressed against her cheek.

She opened her eyes to darkness, complete and suffocating. Her breath hitched in her throat, cut short by the panic that welled up inside her.

Where was she? What had happened to her?

Memories of the attack rushed back to her unbridled, flooding her mind with images. She remembered leaving the estate and going for a walk. She remembered the two men who had attacked her, grabbing her and holding her still as they pressed a rag to her nose and mouth, forcing her to breathe in the fumes that had made her fall asleep.

And now, she had no idea where she was. All she knew was that she was moving, which could only mean she was on a carriage.

“Hello?” she whispered, her voice rough, weak with as much drowsiness as fear.

A low laugh answered from somewhere above her.

“She’s awake,” a man said.

Light flooded in as a flap was lifted. Elsie squinted, blinking as shapes formed—two men seated at the front of a rough wagon, their faces hard and unfamiliar.

She didn’t ask who they were, as she doubted she would get a response—at least not a satisfying one. Besides, who they were didn’t matter to her at all. They were brigands, and that was all that mattered. All she wanted to know was how far she was from the estate and what her chances were of making it back home if she managed to escape.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound composed.

“Far enough,” one replied.

“Why?” Her heart pounded in her chest like a war drum, but she tried to ignore it; she tried to ignore the panic, the bitter taste of bile in the back of her throat, to keep herself calm enough to find a way out—a way home. “My family will pay whatever you want.”

The men laughed in unison, as if what Elsie had said was hilarious to them. She stared at them in silence, impatiently waiting for them to stop, but then one of them—the larger of the two, with an ugly scar over his face—spoke.

“Her family, she says,” the man said in a mocking tone, one that had Elsie’s heart sinking. Were they not after gold? By the looks of them, they were brigands, nothing more, and so she expected them to want gold. Her family could pay plenty of it. Selene would surely give them what they wanted if it meant she could have her back home, safe. “Did ye hear that? Dae ye reckon we should turn around, then? Head back tae her family?”

The other man laughed once more, nodding fervently. “Oh aye, I’m sure that would be a great plan.”

The two men continued to laugh for what seemed like an infinity to Elsie. They seemed to share a joke she couldn’t understand—at least until. The first man spoke once more.

“That’s nae how this works,” he said. “Ye’re nae a ransom. Ye’re goods.”

The word hollowed her out, though she didn’t know what, precisely, the man meant. Did they plan on selling her to the highest bidder? How could that even happen? Where would they find someone who wanted to purchase her?

What was the cost of a life anyway?

The wagon lurched forward, throwing her against the wall. She cried out, curling inward as the wheels creaked and the road carried her farther and farther away from everything she had ever known.

Elsie pressed her forehead to the cold wood, tears sliding silently down her face. She didn’t want the men to see her like that. She didn’t want to show any weakness, not when they would descend upon her like vultures, taking advantage of any vulnerability she showed.

Selene. She imagined her sister back at the estate, wondering where she was. She imagined her panicking when she would realize she was no longer there, sending out search parties for her that would lead nowhere.

The mere thought was enough to bring forth a pang of pain, like a blade to the heart. How could she have been so foolish? How could she have put herself in such a dangerous situation when her sister had warned her not to stray outside the estate alone?

Then, with a strength she did not know she possessed, she steadied her breath.

She would survive, she told herself. She had to. If not for herself, then for her sister; for Selene, who would do anything in her power to bring her back home.

Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!

Chapter One

May, 1720

Somewhere in Scotland

Lady Elsie Montgomery groaned, the burning of rough hemp against her skin, biting in, leaving her delicate wrists raw. She had lost count of how many hours she had been working to free herself, to no avail. But she kept trying, because to stop would be giving up, and Elsie refused to give up. She had simply never been very good at surrender.

The air in the carriage, which truthfully, was more of a rickety wagon, was damp and dank, filling her nose with the scents of horse sweat and damp wool. Every jolt over the uneven road sent ropes of pain through her arms as she worked the knots behind her back.

She was very hungry and knew not where her captors were taking her. Every move was made under the cover of darkness, and as this was her first foray into the Scottish Highlands, she had no earthly idea where they were. Though she knew they had crossed water at some point in night.

She winced from the sharp jolt of the wagon.

Luckily, an opportunity had fallen into her lap, in the form of a small metal pin. The road she had cursed so much during her ordeal, had provided that small gift. She had no idea what the pin had been holding together, but when it dropped into her skirts, she sent a prayer up.

The wagon creaked forward and her captors laughed when Elsie could not hold in a sob. They mistook her pain for weakness., but she was no wilting English rose, especially not in the face of the fools who managed to get the best of her, not by a longshot.

“Dinnae fash, lass,” one of the men croaked through his mirth. “We’ll be nearin’ Inverarish soon enough.”

“His lordship will pay nicely fer an English lass,” his partner said.

“Aye,” the first captor said. “We’ll be eatin’ well taenight!”

“Fer a long while after that too!”

A chill ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold Highland wind. Her captors’ evil glee at the money she would bring in did cause a small shiver of fear. To be taken and sold like chattel… there was something very wrong with the world when a person was treated thusly. Her value even less than that of a prized mare sold at auction. What would become of her if she did not loosen her restraints?

Elsie gritted her teeth, pressing the small metal pin harder against the knot. The wagon came to a stop just as the knot loosened, giving way a small fraction, then another. Her heart leaped in her chest. The men’s voices grew closer.

“Keep her tied tight,” one growled. “She had a wild look in her eye.”

If only they knew how wild she could truly be. Her pulse hammered as the ropes holding her slipped free.

For a brief moment she was paralyzed, only able to stare at her hands as they trembled, finally free and red from the strain of her captivity. Finally free. She flexed her fingers, the thrill of disbelief flooding her. Quickly she came to her senses and began working the ropes around her ankles. The sharp point of the metal pin cut into the palm of her hand, but she barely noticed. Her focus was on freeing her legs.

Why did I not listen to Selene and stay within the walls of the estate?

Hoofbeats.

Elsie’s head jerked up, ears turning to the sound, her legs momentarily forgotten. In the distance she most definitely heard hoofbeats. And they weren’t the plodding rhythm of a draft horse like the one pulling her wagon. No, these were lighter, faster. Perhaps a single rider, maybe two.

Hope surged in her chest. If only she could reach them somehow. Strangers would surely help her gain freedom from her captors.

She worked furiously, and once her legs were free, she scrambled to the wagon door. The latch stuck, swollen with the damp air, but she would not be deterred. Elsie slammed her shoulder into the rotted wood.

The wood cracked open and light poured into the small, cramped space. Blinding, glorious light. She instinctively put her arm over her eyes, willing herself to adjust to the daylight. She jumped down, boots hitting the ground hard, sending sharp tingles up to her knees.

She staggered, before righting herself into a full sprint. Her skirts flew behind her as her lungs burned from the cold and exertion.

“Stop her!”

Elsie heard the pandemonium among her captors that her escape created, but she hardly cared. She refused to turn back. The moor stretched open in front of her, stopping abruptly along a ridge far out ahead. She ran, heather brushing against her knees. Somewhere beyond the ridge she could still hear the faint hoofbeats, though she was unsure if she truly heard them or if it was merely hope burning in her chest.

It’s no matter, real or not. I’m free.

Then a hand caught her arm, yanking her back with force.

“No!” she cried, as she twisted and kicked, clawing at the red-haired man who pulled at her. He cursed as her nails raked down his cheek. “Let me go!”

“Ye’re only makin’ it worse fer yerself, lass,” the man growled, yanking her back again, knocking the air from her lungs. She hit the ground and rolled. When she tried to rise to continue her escape the captor’s hands clamped down firmly upon her waist. “Enough!” he shouted.

“You’re miserable cowards,” she growled through the sting of the tears she could no longer hold back. Fury blazing through her.

The man struck her across the face, not with excessive force but hard enough that her world spun. Elsie let out a gasp.

He dragged her back toward the wagon, and even though she dug her heels into the earth, she was not strong enough to stop him. Still, she fought, screaming, biting, kicking.

“Dougal, get over here, an’ help me wi’ this beast,” her captor called to his friend.

“Keep her held,” the other man, Dougal, shouted. Elsie was not strong enough to fight off two captors, but she could not stop. She had to free herself. She kicked harder, twisting her body to try and loosen the hold upon her, even as Dougal approached and grabbed at her flailing leg.

Then she heard it again, this time closer. Horses.

“Help!” she screamed using every ounce of air in her chest. “Someone! Help me!”

“Shut her mouth!” the first man barked.

“HELP!” she screamed again, defiant as her shouting echoed over the moor like a battle cry. “SOMEONE!! PLEASE!”

The men swore, struggling to keep her silent, but she refused to stop. Even as cold, rough hands clamped over her mouth and pain tore through her, she fought with everything she had, because deep in her soul she knew this moment might be the only one between her salvation or utter ruin.

“PLEASE! I know you’re out there, please help…”

Chapter Two

The wind cut sharply from the north, carrying with it the salty freshness of the sea—that coupled with peat smoke on the air told Halvard MacLeod, Laird of Clan MacLeod of Rasaay, that winter was on its way. A hard winter, if his instincts were correct.

He pressed his knees into his horse’s flanks, urging the stallion up onto the final rise overlooking the moor. Normally he’d savor the view, the rolling heather, the silver break of the sea, the mountains he called home, brooding like old gods against the horizon. But currently, his mind was not present. His thoughts were fully consumed by what was happening miles ahead at Brochel Castle. More precisely, the unwelcome company waiting within its walls. A royal envoy awaited him, like executioners in silks with powdered wigs, believing they had the right to stride among his lands and people wherever they pleased.

His second, Sten, had rode out to meet him with the news. “They arrived two days ago,” he had said with a grim expression. Keeping pace beside him now, he continued on. “Three men, all with the seal of the king. Led by Thomas Redfern. They’ve been waitin’, impatient, nerves on edge, m’laird.”

“And ye’ve offered them our finest whisky, to dull their impatience, I hope,” Halvard groaned. Running a hand through his unkempt, dark blond hair. At least Thomas Redfern was fair minded, or at least that was how his reputation preceded him.

“Aye,” Sten replied. “And prayed ye’d come back sooner.”

Halvard almost smiled at his friend, but the closer they drew to home, the heavier the weight of inevitability sat on his shoulders, burdened by his visitors. It settled heavier with each hoofbeat toward home. Duty, always duty.

They continued on in companionable silence, but as they rounded the birch grove and the land opened into that wide stretch of moor, Sten’s posture changed. Halvard felt it as well, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. The type that preceded danger.

Ahead on the road a wagon sat, two exhausted horsed tied to it and guarded by two men whose alertness made no sense out in the middle of nowhere, hours and miles from the nearest village. They were too sharp, trained perhaps. They held weapons that did not fit in with a farmer’s load.

Halvard’s gaze narrowed. He knew every man within miles, every family, every tenant. These men were not of this place. They were strangers.

“Are ye thinkin’ th’ same as I?” Sten leaned in.

“Aye,” Halvard responded, his hand naturally moving to rest on the hilt of his sword. Old instincts honed over too many battles snaked under his belt, refusing to be ignored by his gut. “Travelers armed like raiders. Stay close, we’ll pass slow.”

They approached the men at a controlled trot, as unthreatening as two Highland warriors with many years of battle experience could appear. But as the distance between the men closed something changed. The hair on Halvard’s neck stood at firm attention as he identified a sound which could only be one thing.

A woman’s scream.

Halvard reined in hard as the blood running through his veins turned cold. His stallion reared, snorting. Another cry came, this one desperate, pleading. The wagon ahead began to lurch forward and he heard a distinct curse come from a man, as he dragged something––no, someone––from the ground, attempting to open the back hatch of the wagon as it slowly began to move.

“By god,” Sten muttered next to him, already with his blade drawn. “It’s a wo…”

Halvard didn’t allow his friend to finish, he was already moving, spurring his horse forward, the thunderous roar of his horse breaking across the moor like a winter gale. The men turned, clearly not expecting company. One reached for a musket, but Halvard was quick. He slammed into the brute, steel flashing as he sent the man sprawling into the heather.

The second man spun, dragging the woman back toward the wagon. Halvard could see the fight in her. She was flailing, wild as a boar. Her skirts were torn, and her golden hair was loose, catching the sun like fire. His chest clenched as he saw her mouth had been bloodied and her wrists were clearly raw from being bound. Rage built up inside him. To treat a woman in such a manner was unconscionable. Then he saw her eyes… the lass’ eyes arrested him. Despite what she was clearly going through, they remained bright, their emerald depths defiant.

He had seen courage like hers before, on a battlefield. She was fierce, terrified and alive all at once, and he knew if he did not intervene, that light in her eyes would be put out. That was something he could not allow.

“Let th’ lass go,” Halvard warned, his voice a low growl, feral.

The man hesitated, the panting in his breath showing his exertion. “This is none of yer concern,” he bit out.

“’Tis more of my concern than ye may ken,” Halvard replied. “I’m laird of these lands, and tae me, it appears ye’ve taken this lass against her will?”

How likely are you to recommend this preview to a friend?

Not at all Likely Extremely Likely
0	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10

Submit

Best selling books of Kenna

★★★★★ 266 ratings

This is the story of Gillian, an adventurous English lady who finds herself captured by a mysterious and alluring Highlander. This Highlander will do whatever it takes to save his people from hunger, even abduct the daughter of his enemy. But life seldom goes as planned. What will happen when the Highlander starts falling for Gillian? And will her feelings or her logic prevail in this peculiar turn of events?

Read the book

★★★★★ 208 ratings

This is the story of Julia, an intelligent English lady who runs away to escape her woes and finds herself in the keep of an enticing Highlander. This Highlander, as handsome as he may be, has serious economic troubles, and only a miracle can save him. But perhaps one's answer is closer than he thinks. How will he help her face the past that is haunting her? And how will she save him?

Read the book

★★★★★ 213 ratings

This is the story of Gale, an adventurous English lady who runs away to escape her murderous mother and finds herself in the company of an alluring Highlander. There she is called to change her ways, and he helps her see the world from a different point of view. But her past is catching up with her. How will she elude her mother? And will this be the only obstacle in their relationship?

Read the book

Inveraray Castle, Clan Campbell, 5 days earlier

Rain lashed against the narrow arrow slits of Castle Inveraray, carried sideways by the wind that screamed across the battlements. The storm was loud enough to drown footfalls, loud enough to mask the sound of fear.

Perfect.

If she was going to attempt this—if she was going to do something so reckless that her father would thrash her bloody if he found out—that storm was the only blessing she was likely to get.

She moved quietly through the keep’s lower corridors, her hood drawn low, her skirts gathered so they wouldn’t whisper along the stone floor. The walls were cold, slick with damp. Torches flickered weakly in front of iron cages, their flames thin and trembling in the drafts. Few people passed that way unless ordered; fewer still lingered.

Her heart hammered in her chest. Each beat felt like a drum calling out her treason.

If faither learns I’m here…

But she thought of Alyson—pale, exhausted, barely more than a frightened girl thrust into a war she had nothing to do with—and her steps only quickened.

Isabeau had seen mistreated prisoners before. Her father made certain his daughter witnessed the consequences of disobedience and felt them on her own skin. But there had been something different in the way Alyson MacDonald had looked at her that first time—something that had burrowed into Isabeau’s ribs and refused to let go.

Not defiance, not hatred, but a quiet, shaking plea.

Two guards stood at the end of the dungeon corridor. They sat slumped on wooden stools, playing at dice on an upturned crate, arguing drunkenly over whose roll was rigged. They hardly looked her way when she approached, a tray of slop in her hands.

“Evenin’, me lady,” one drawled. “Yer faither sendin’ scraps fer the prisoner again, eh?”

Isabeau smiled politely, the practiced gesture she had perfected over years of pretending not to be afraid. “Aye. He wants her alive tae fetch better bargains.”

That made the guards laugh. “That daes work. How come ye didnae send a maid?”

Assuming a conspiratorial tone, Isabeau leaned closer to the two men, whispering. “If I’m tae be honest, I wanted tae see the prisoner. Och, I’m curious an’ I wanted tae see her.”

One of the guards chuckled, nodding along. “Och aye, we’re all a wee curious, me lady. Go on, then. Take a look.”

They speak o’ her as if she’s a wild animal on display.

They waved her past without further interest, and Isabeau pushed down her rage, her disgust towards the two men who viewed all this as little more than a game. Alyson’s cell lay in the far corner, half swallowed by shadow. Isabeau glanced over her shoulder—still the clatter of dice, still drunken laughter—then forced herself deeper into the gloom.

Alyson sat curled on the straw-strewn floor, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She looked up at the sound of footsteps, her eyes wide and hollowed by fear.

“Isabeau.” It was barely a whisper.

Isabeau knelt, setting the basket quietly beside her. “I’ve come tae see ye and tae offer somethin’ better than scraps.” She pulled aside the cloth lining the basket to reveal a small waterskin, a handful of hard cheese pilfered from the kitchens, some coin, and under them—hidden as well as she could manage—a crude sketch of the land near the castle.

Alyson blinked rapidly, her gaze snapping up in disbelief. “What is this? What are ye daein’?”

“Ye’re leavin’,” Isabeau said. “This should get ye back home.”

“Isabeau—”

“Ye’re leavin’,” Isabeau insisted, and the firm look she gave Alyson was enough to convince her. She nodded, her lips pressed into a thin, firm line, her eyes wide with as much fear as hope.

Alyson squeezed her hand through the bars, small and fragile but fiercely grateful. “Thank ye…”

For a moment they were silent, listening to the storm batter the castle around them. Two women—one a prisoner, the other a caged daughter—raw in their shared fear.

Then footsteps echoed from the stairway.

I took too long.

She looked over her shoulder at the darkness that stretched behind her, nothing but a singular, flickering torch lighting up the passage.

“A guard,” Alyson whispered, panic rising.

But that was no guard; Isabeau knew those footsteps well, the thudding of them over the stone.

Isabeau snapped the cloth back over the map, shoved the basket toward Alyson. “Hide it, quickly!”

But there was no time.

A tall figure strode into view, hovering over her like a looming shadow, like death itself. Isabeau’s breath stopped, and she rose too fast, nearly stumbling, falling right into her father.

His eyes narrowed immediately. “What are ye daeing down here, Isabeau?”

Rain dripped from his cloak, the storm raging outside seeming mild compared to the fury she saw gathering in his face.

“I… I only—”

Alyson scurried back into the shadows, trying to hide the basket, but the movement caught her eye. With a nod, he called over the guards, who hurried to open the door for him, and Isabeau’s blood ran cold in her veins. With two long strides, he reached Alyson and kicked the basket aside, the cloth falling away.

The map lay bare.

Her father turned slowly toward Isabeau, and the cold in his eyes froze the marrow in her bones.

“What is this?” he asked, though Isabeau knew he already had the answer. He gave her no chance to respond before he spoke again. “Ye dare,” he growled, “tae meddle in me affairs? Ye dare betray yer own clan?”

“I wasnae—” But her voice fractured under the weight of his fury.

He seized her arm, fingers digging so hard into her flesh that she cried out. “Ye’ve always been a foolish, defiant girl,” he spat. “But this…”

Alyson flinched at the venom in his tone.

“ … this will not happen again.”

He dragged Isabeau toward the stair, her feet scrabbling for purchase on the slick stones. Alyson cried out, begging him to let Isabeau go, but her voice was swallowed by the clang of the dungeon door slamming shut.

The storm howled as her father hauled her back into the keep, his grip bruising, his rage merciless. Isabeau’s old wounds ached with the memory of pain, with the knowledge of what was to come. But her mind drifted back to Alyson, to that dark, damp cell.

To the fate that awaited her.

Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!

Chapter One

Inveraray Castle, Clan Campbell, 1689

“I dinnae care what ye dae tae keep her in here. Break her legs if ye must, but make sure she goes naewhere.”

Isabeau had been on her way to the drawing room, one of the few sanctuaries she had in the castle, when she heard her father’s voice boom through the corridor. She paused, one foot on the stone landing, her heart already beating erratically, bile rising to the back of her throat.

He was talking about her; he had to be.

Her hand hovered near the edge of the banister to steady herself. The door to her father’s study was slightly ajar, just enough for the low murmur of voices to filter through the heavy wood and into the dim corridor.

“Until the ink’s dry an’ the marriage is secured, I’ll nae risk another foolishness from her,” he said, his voice like the crunch of gravel under a boot, rough and merciless. “An’ once she’s with the Grants, we’ll have killed two birds with one stone. She’ll be their problem then.”

Isabeau’s stomach turned. Her knees trembled, but she forced herself to still, to stay as quiet as she could. Her hand reached for her shoulder instinctively, where an old scar still ached with weather and memory, a sharp sting coursing through her. Another voice—a guard’s, deeper and quieter—responded, but she barely heard him. Her mind was roaring, her vision tunneling in on the single, terrible truth under her father’s words.

This is me last chance.

Once the marriage was sealed, there would be no escape, no freedom; only a different kind of cage with different hands to bruise her. At least here, in her home, she had a few people who cared for her, in their own way and as much as they could, servants and maids who took pity on her and gave her a kind word, a warm smile, some company.

She turned, silently slipping down the next step. Her body moved on instinct, every motion honed by years of survival in her father’s house—soft-footed, breath shallow, ears sharp for the wrong creak or muffled shout. She didn’t allow herself to think further than the next step, and then the next after that. If she gave the situation any more thought in that moment, she feared she would falter or fold.

Once in her chambers, she pressed her back against the closed door, letting her eyes slip shut and her breath quicken.

It is now or never.

For years, she had thought of escaping. For years, she dreamed of the moment she would be free from her father’s tyranny, but she had never managed to do what she had to. Staying there was not an option, though, not anymore. She had endured too much already; this was the final straw.

Isabeau composed herself with a deep, steeling breath. She stood straight and looked around her room. Everything beloved to her was there—some old books, a small bouquet of dried flowers, given to her fresh by a bold stable boy and preserved by her own hands, and an old family heirloom that she never dared to wear around her neck in front of her father.

And now, she had to say goodbye.

The stash she had hidden for months trying to find the courage to escape, a battered satchel filled with dried herbs, a flask of water, some crusted bread wrapped in cloth, and a few pilfered coins, was waiting, already packed and wedged behind a loose panel under her bed. She took it quickly, strapping it across her shoulder and yanking the coarse cloak of dark wool over her dress. Her fingers trembled as she reached under the pillow for the final item: a dirk, thin and sharp, stolen from a guard who once made the mistake of passing out near the kitchens after a wild night.

Footsteps stopped her dead in her tracks, bent as she was over the bed, satchel in hand, her other shoving a shawl inside. Her eyes stared at the door as she waited to see if someone would come in.

It was guards, she noted—the steady rhythm of their boots familiar to her. Had they all received word from her father to keep a close eye on her? Had they come to ensure she was in her rooms?

But then, as suddenly as the footsteps had come, they disappeared down the hallway as the guards passed her room. It was just their rotation, she told herself, nothing more than the usual patrol around the castle.

And yet, she didn’t waste any more time before she slipped out of her room.

By the time Isabeau reached the back gate, the sun had slunk low enough to bathe the hills in rust-red hues. Shadows stretched long, the darkness of the night lurking just around the corner, but Isabeau welcomed it. There was only one way to slip out unnoticed, and that was in the dark.

Isabeau crouched in the lee of the stone wall, pressing herself against the cold as she waited. The wind howled around her, stirring her dark hair and the hem of her cloak. The chill was biting on her cheeks, stinging and reddening her pale skin. No protection seemed to be enough against it, and no matter how much Isabeau curled into herself, huddling to fight the cold, it still seeped into her bones, making her shiver.

But it wouldn’t be long before the change of guard. There was a window, small and unlikely, in which she could slip out of the castle unnoticed—as long as no one searched for her before the change of guard, at least. But as unlikely, as dangerous, as miraculous as an escape sounded, Isabeau kept her faith. She had no other choice, and so she would make it.

The patrol passed—two men on foot, speaking idly of wagers and women. She counted the seconds after they vanished, praying quietly under her breath. The satchel pressed to her chest, held like the precious thing it was, Isabeau glanced around her when she reached fifty, the former guards too far down the path to hear her and the next ones not yet there.

And she ran.

Each step was agony and freedom. Her boots sank in the mud that had formed after the previous night’s rain, the soles sticking to the soil and making her trek even more laborious. Still, she ran like a woman with a knife at her throat and the promise of air just beyond reach. Her satchel bumped against her ribs, the strap digging into her shoulder. Her ankles threatened to roll with every step, and her lungs burned with the effort it took to run through the tall grass, the marshy ground that gave under her weight.

She didn’t look back, too fearful of what she might see. Even when she thought she heard footsteps and shouts, even when the wind played tricks in her ears, she kept pressing forward, heart hammering in her chest.

She didn’t stop, not until the castle torches were a far-off glimmer and the trees of the lower woods swallowed her whole.

It was dark there, darker than it had been on the hill. The sunlight of that day was rapidly fading, giving its way to the inky night. The first star had just appeared in the sky, and the dirt path that stretched before her seemed more uninviting than ever before.

This is what I need… the darkness. I cannae see, but nae one can see me either.

Ahead of her, the dirt road sloped down into a shallow valley, flanked by brambles and skeletal oaks. Her lungs burned. Her legs burned, her eyes, her throat; Isabeau was barely holding herself together. She slowed, chest heaving, and let herself believe for just one moment.

If I can reach the village… just the village. Spend one night in an inn, then head south tae the Lowlands. I can say I’m a cook, I can… I can make a modest livin’.

She would change her name. She would cut her hair. She would forget what it meant to be a Campbell.

Her feet carried her down the path, taking one step at a time. With each step, her dream seemed more and more within reach. Hope fountained inside her unbridled, and she let it carry her forward, her feet picking up speed.

But just as she was about to take a turn in the path, the sudden crack of underbrush behind her shattered her fragile dream like glass.

Isabeau froze, startled to stillness. Her heart began to pound again, too loud, too fast.

Another step, this one closer. Then another and another, until it seemed to her that she was completely surrounded, the sounds coming from every direction.

She turned slowly, reaching into the folds of her cloak, her fingers closing around the worn hilt of the dirk. The blade felt insignificant in her grip, but it was all she had, and she’d be damned if she didn’t use it when, from the gloom behind the trees, four figures emerged like wolves drawn to scent.

They were gaunt, filthy, their breath misting in the cooling air as they laughed among themselves. One wore a shredded tartan around his waist; another had a broken tooth and blood crusted at the corner of his mouth. All of them reeked of ale and sweat—the kind of stench that gathered outside inns and taverns of the kind Isabeau had the misfortune to visit only a few times in her life.

“Look what we’ve got here,” one of them slurred. He was a large man, tall and stout, and Isabeau had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. “Wee rabbit’s run from the warren.”

Isabeau didn’t answer. Her feet shifted slightly, widening her stance, and her dirk glinted faintly in the half-light, the weight of it in her palm her only comfort. She kept her face calm, but her hands were slick with sweat, and she tightened her fingers around it, keeping her grip secure.

“Bonnie thing,” another said, stepping closer. Older than the first man, his eyes glinted in the dim light. “Pretty even with that look. Ye lost, lass?”

“I’ll gut ye where ye stand,” she said, voice like ice. It was a lie, but it sounded real enough.

The men laughed, loudly, cruelly. They circled her like feral dogs, their boots grinding the earth into dust, their leering grins made more grotesque by the bruises and grime smeared across their faces. Isabeau turned in place, her breath shallow, the dirk trembling in her grip. She held it like she’d seen guards do—blade forward, stance braced—but her hands were too slick with sweat, her limbs too light with panic.

“How much d’ye reckon she’ll fetch?” The first one asked. “If we sell her tae the right hands, she’ll fetch us a handsome price.”

“I’d wager more than a few coins fer a lass like this,” the third man said, stepping closer, his gaze dragging down her front. “If we dinnae get used tae her first.”

Bile rose up Isabeau’s throat, the sharp sting of it making her swallow hard. She had no doubt that those men meant her harm. There was nothing empty about their words, nothing that made her think they were too cowardly to deliver on their threats. These men were thieves—men looking for easy pay. And now that she had stumbled into their path, they had found just that.

“I am a lady, born o’ noble blood,” she snapped, lifting her chin in defiance despite the tremble in her jaw. “If ye touch me, me faither will have yer heads.”

They paused as if considering it—but only for a moment.

Then the one nearest to her barked a laugh. “A lady, is it? Och, sure, an’ I’m the king.”

“A noble-born, travelin’ all alone, nay carriage, nay guards tae keep an eye on her?” the large man asked. “Isnae that funny, lads?”

“Let us see what kind o’ liar she really is,” said another, the smallest and youngest of the four, who looked at her with a sneer that was as mocking as it was chilling.

And then they lunged.

Isabeau screamed and slashed out blindly, her blade carving a shallow gash across one man’s forearm. It was the young one, the first one to reach her, and he roared in pain, stumbling back. It was the opening she needed, and she wasted no time before she sidestepped the man, running deeper into the woods, hoping she would lose them.

There was no going back and there was no going forward. All she could hope for was a place to hide for a while, somewhere that would keep her safe until those brutes decided to leave.

For a brief moment, she tasted freedom. For a brief moment, she held the hope that she could outrun them, snaking through the trees just out of their reach, but the others were on her too fast. The flash of victory was extinguished too quickly, too mercilessly, and she had no time to flee before the rest were upon her.

One caught her wrist mid-swing, another slammed his boot into the back of her knee, and she collapsed with a cry, her cloak tangling around her legs. Isabeau kicked and clawed, baring her teeth like a wild animal, but the dirk was wrenched from her hand by a hand much stronger than hers, and flung into the brush.

“Nay!” she gasped, but it was gone.

A rough fist seized her by the shoulder and slammed her into the dirt. Her cheek scraped the ground, a stinging pain coursing through her entire face as her skin was cut by a fallen twig. The fight burned through her muscles, and she twisted and turned in the men’s grip, desperate to throw them off her, but it wasn’t enough—not against four men, all of them towering over them.

I’m doomed. I cannae fight them an’ I cannae escape them.

“Get the rope,” one snapped. “She’s worth somethin’, aye, but only if she daesnae scratch out our eyes first.”

Within moments, one of them crouched down next to her, quickly tying her wrists behind her back as two others held her still. Her throat burned with her screams, her voice now hoarse and rough. The cord dug into her wrists like fire, cutting deep as they bound her, tighter and tighter, until her fingers throbbed with numbness. Her ankles were tied next, the rope so tight she cried out furiously.

Still she fought—squirming, spitting curses, thrashing like a creature half-mad with rage and terror.

“Let go o’ me, ye brutes! Animals!”

They didn’t care. No matter what insults she hurled at them, they fell upon deaf ears.

They shoved her hard onto her side, but instead of attacking her as she expected, they yanked her satchel away. The food, her coin, her carefully packed herbs—all dumped into the dirt and picked over like scraps. She watched with growing dread as they pocketed what little she had left, their hands soon rifling through her cloak and bodice in search of anything else to steal.

I’ll starve without coin. How will I make it tae the Lowlands?

She refused to believe that she wouldn’t make it due to the attack. She refused to believe she would be held their captive, that there was no saving herself. The Lowlands were still the goal; anything else was unthinkable.

Isabeau’s vision blurred with hot, furious tears. Without money, she had nothing—no way to pay her way there, no way to buy food or passage. If she stayed there someone would recognize her. Someone would drag her straight back to her father.

One of the men leaned closer, eyes narrowing as he glanced down her skirts.

“What about under here?” he sneered, reaching for the hem.

Her scream tore through the woods like thunder. She kicked at him with stiff, furious legs, but before he could touch her, another sound cracked through the underbrush.

Another set of footsteps, heavy and deliberate.

The thieves froze, and from the shadows ahead, a figure stepped into the path.

Hood drawn low, obscuring his face in the dying light, Isabeau couldn’t make out his features, but she could see he was tall, broad-shouldered. Something about the way he moved made the air still, as though the very world around them held its breath.

And though he didn’t speak, Isabeau knew his gaze was on her. She felt it like a prickle on the back of her neck, like a shiver that refused to fade.

Who is this man who hides his face?

Chapter Two

The thieves were a blur in Isabeau’s vision. Two of them lunged at the stranger, their blades flashing in their hands, and Isabeau’s breath caught. The man moved just as fast, cutting down the largest of the thieves with one, swift swipe of his dirk.

Never before had Isabeau seen such speed and confidence, such skills. Never before had she seen someone strike down another man with such ease, like he was nothing but a sack of grain. The thief crumbled to the ground, falling dead before he had even hit the soil, and the stranger was quick to set his sights on his next target—the young man who had looked at her with that detestable sneer.

He’s so strong… he looks like a statue brought tae life.

The younger one hesitated for a moment after seeing the show of brutality before his eyes. But then, his blade met the stranger’s with a clang, the two of them clashing with echoed roars. Isabeau watched them, her head held high off the ground, her neck craning as she tried to keep up with their fight as the other two men held her still, eager to see what the stranger would do—if he would manage to kill the other, if he would free her from these men.

But if he frees me, will I only be held captive by different hands?

Was that stranger a good Samaritan, someone who saw her suffer and wanted to help her? Or did he want to take advantage of her himself, to do to her the very same thing those men wanted to do?

Isabeau didn’t know, and she wouldn’t find out—not until the man had killed them all, if he could even do that. But her odds were much better if she was against one man than four, no matter how dangerous and ruthless said man was.

But why would he hurt me after savin’ me?

The men’s blades clashed again and again, their shouts deafening in the quiet road. Isabeau watched them with a racing heart, her chest rattling with it, her throat tight, her eyes burning. The stranger moved like a man possessed, like a wild, rabid animal whose only goal was to kill—and kill he did. His blade plunged into the man’s chest, slicing him open, and he watched as he stumbled backwards, clutching at the wound.

He hadn’t even hit the ground before the stranger turned to her, his blade dripping with blood.

“Damn ye,” one of the men holding her said under his breath as he yanked Isabeau up to her feet, the sudden motion making her dizzy. It took her a second or two, but then she struggled to get free, twisting in his hands, only for the man to hold her tighter, tight enough for bruises to bloom over her arms, over scars that had already healed and others that were still healing. But when the other who remained pressed the tip of his blade against her side, she stilled, her blood running cold.

“Take another step an’ I’ll kill her,” the armed man warned. Even through her cloak and bodice, Isabeau could feel the sharpness of his dirk, the sting of the blade.

The stranger tilted his head to the side as if confused. “What makes ye think ye can?”

The man’s voice, a deep, honeyed baritone sent a shiver down Isabeau’s spine. There was something terribly confident, almost cocky about the way he spoke to the other man, but Isabeau had no trouble believing that he could best the other, even when he was using her as a shield.

Isabeau screamed as blades met before her eyes, the man holding her refusing to relinquish his hold on her arms. The stranger, though he faltered and paused every time his blade came too close to her, as if fearful that he would harm her, kept the men at bay. He fought the two thieves at once, twisting and turning on his heel as he tried to parry the blows.

The blood rushed in Isabeau’s veins, pounding in her ears. The air around them was filled with the shouts of the three men, with the cries of terror that crawled out of her as the man tried to drag her away from the fight, unable to fight back or even find her balance. Her feet stumbled, her spine curved, and the more she tried to fight back, to force the man to let go of her, the tighter he held on to her.

But then, distracted as he was by her efforts, he was the first of the two to be struck down. The stranger’s blade caught him across the back, carving a deep wound into his flesh, and after mere seconds, Isabeau was finally free—only for the last man’s blade to slice through her stomach in the chaos.

Pain came first—sharp, white-hot, and sudden.

Isabeau gasped, the sound punched out of her lungs as the thief’s blade slashed across her. She couldn’t tell how deep it was, but it was enough to bring her knees buckling under her. The scream never made it past her lips. Only a breathless sound, fists trembling as blood began to soak through the layers of her bodice.

The stranger’s eyes locked into her own for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity. It was as though time stopped between them, and when he finally dragged his gaze away from her and back to the last man standing, his face twisting into a mask of fury.

The man who had wounded her didn’t stop to look. He was too busy parrying the deadly storm of steel the stranger unleashed with every step forward.

“Ye bastard,” the stranger said through gritted teeth, his words coming out between breathless pants as he attacked the other man again and again, showing no mercy. “Daes it make ye feel good, hurtin’ an innocent lass? Daes it?”

The other man didn’t speak. Isabeau doubted he could, with the way the stranger was attacking him. But she couldn’t help but stare, her lips slightly parted, her heart thumping with every breath she took, as grateful to him as she was intrigued by his existence.

It was over in seconds. The stranger grabbed the man by the shoulder and shoved his blade through his stomach, then deeper, before finally twisting the blade with a cruelty that chilled her to the bone. But Isabeau couldn’t care too much about that—not when dizziness gripped her, sudden and unbeatable.

The pain in her stomach throbbed in time with her heartbeat, and warm blood fountained out of her, drenching her dress. The world began to go dark and fuzzy around the edges, and in the end, she crumpled onto the cold dirt of the forest floor, jaw clenched against the groan that escaped her lips.

Within moments, the stranger was there, crouching down next to her, the scent of sweat and steel and blood lingering on him like a shroud. He knelt beside her, his shadow swallowing her whole.

Her heart stopped when she saw the flash of his blade once more. But this time, he aimed for the bonds around her wrists, cutting off the rope, before he moved on to her ankles, finally freeing her. Isabeau rolled to her back on the ground, a hand coming to press against the wound on her stomach, her palm instantly tacky and warm from the blood.

He was so close to her now that Isabeau could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, see the flecks of gold in his eyes. From up close, the first thing she noticed about him was how handsome he was—his forehead high and regal, his jaw sharp under a smattering of dark stubble, his generous mouth twisting in concern.

He saved me. Had it nae been fer him, I would be dead now.

But what if he leaves me here?

Then she would certainly die, if not from the blood loss, which was bound to claim her, then from an infection. Getting to a healer was no easy task, it was not something she could deal with herself.

“Let me see.”

The voice was low, roughened by the wind. Isabeau should have flinched. She should have pulled away, but something in the tone—commanding, yes, but not cruel—made her hold still. Her heart thundered, her vision flickered at the edges, but her pride flared sharp under it all.

Isabeau’s gown clung to her, heavy with blood. The fabric at her midsection had torn, baring a strip of pale skin and the angry red gash that stained it. The pain pulsed, jagged and unrelenting, but it was the man’s hand—reaching, not hesitantly, but purposefully—that finally made her flinch.

She shuffled back, one arm wrapping instinctively around her ribs to shield the wound.

“Dinnae touch me.” Her voice cracked but held steel beneath the tremor. “I’m fine.”

The stranger didn’t draw back immediately. His eyes flicked to the wound, then to her face, as though gauging which was more stubborn—the injury or the woman bearing it.

“That cut needs lookin’ at,” he said flatly. “Ye willnae make it far with it bleedin’ like that.”

“I’ve made it this far.”

“Barely.”

His words weren’t cruel, but they cut all the same. It was a cold assessment, devoid of pity.

“I’ll take ye tae a healer,” the man said, insistent. “Where’s the nearest village?”

“I dinnae need yer help,” she said, suddenly furious—at the pain, at the blood, at the way her limbs trembled despite every order she gave them to be strong. She didn’t trust this man—she didn’t trust anyone.

“Ye dinnae have much o’ a choice,” he pointed out. His voice was quiet, but there was something sharp in it, something that made her stomach clench. “Ye want tae bleed tae death in these woods, that’s yer right. But if ye want tae live, we need tae get that wound stitched right the now.”

Isabeau faltered, her hand tightening around the torn fabric of her dress. She knew he was right. The cut was deep enough; every breath stung, and her gown was already drenched in blood. If she didn’t clean it and close it soon, infection would do worse than any blade.

She didn’t want to die there, not in the cold, not with strangers’ blood still drying on the leaves.

How likely are you to recommend this preview to a friend?

Not at all Likely Extremely Likely
0	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10

Submit

Best selling books of Kenna

★★★★★ 266 ratings

This is the story of Gillian, an adventurous English lady who finds herself captured by a mysterious and alluring Highlander. This Highlander will do whatever it takes to save his people from hunger, even abduct the daughter of his enemy. But life seldom goes as planned. What will happen when the Highlander starts falling for Gillian? And will her feelings or her logic prevail in this peculiar turn of events?

Read the book

★★★★★ 208 ratings

This is the story of Julia, an intelligent English lady who runs away to escape her woes and finds herself in the keep of an enticing Highlander. This Highlander, as handsome as he may be, has serious economic troubles, and only a miracle can save him. But perhaps one's answer is closer than he thinks. How will he help her face the past that is haunting her? And how will she save him?

Read the book

★★★★★ 213 ratings

This is the story of Gale, an adventurous English lady who runs away to escape her murderous mother and finds herself in the company of an alluring Highlander. There she is called to change her ways, and he helps her see the world from a different point of view. But her past is catching up with her. How will she elude her mother? And will this be the only obstacle in their relationship?

Read the book