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One month earlier…

The village stalls were lined up along the green overflowing with fruits, vegetables, breads and other summer wares. It was a hot afternoon, hotter than most of the July days, but Alec MacMillan did not mind the heat. What he did mind was his greatest friend, Tavish McNair, taking his sweet time perusing each and every stall, they came across.

“Ye look like a man judging the worth of every turnip in the Highlands,” Alec said as his friend turned over a vegetable for the fifth time.

“And if I were?” the young laird shot back.

“Then ye’d be the only laird in the Highlands concerned about turnips,” he quipped back.

Any other day he would have waited around for Tavish to give him a smart, humorous come back, but on this particular day, his attention was taken by the sweet sound of laughter coming from beyond the green.

He turned his head to see his daughter, Beitris, sitting with another lass, her head thrown back in laughter at something the other lass must have said. But the other lass looked horrified, as if his daughter had grown an extra head.

He shook his head. That was always the way with Beitris, before her mother had died. Nothing could stop the lass’s zeal for life and laughter. Hearing her laughter now, when for so long she had seemed to keep her laughter hidden, was a balm to his heart.

The other lass seated next to her on the bench sat with her back straight, her hands busy arranging plants of some sort in the basket at her feet. She seemed to tolerate Beitris’s laughter and exuberance well enough, but at the same time was much more reserved. There was the slightest hint of pink at her cheeks and at first Alec thought the lass mayhap was embarrassed by whatever joke or story had Beitris in such good humor, but upon closer inspection, he noticed the beginnings of a sweet smile.

She tossed her head back, her light brown and golden locks catching just enough of the sunlight to keep Alec’s attention just a beat too long.

“Ye see something that piques yer interest?” Tavish asked coming up to his side.

“Aye, me daughter,” he replied, pointing to where Beitris and the other lass sat. “She looks well.”

“Aye, indeed,” Tavish replied, his tone giving away his thoughts. Alec let out a small cough. He had not fooled his friend.

“I think I shall go remind the lass that she shouldnae buy the entirety of the village.”

He didn’t wait for Tavish to respond before he headed across the village green. His gaze kept slipping to the other lass. He found himself transfixed by the way the lass gently tied the perfect knot around each sprig of lavender. She didn’t seem the sort who craved or even wanted attention, yet Alec found himself drawn to her just the same. She seemed quiet against the backdrop of the soap stall where they were standing. Not one for standing out.

“Faither,” Beitris shouted leaving her friend to stay back as she ran across the green in greeting. “I’ve just been looking at soaps.”

“Is that so?” he asked, giving his daughter a stern voice, though he knew she would not take it to heart. It was more for show than true sternness. “Nay mischief, I hope.”

“Never, Faither,” Beitris replied. “Oh look at this…”

Beitris wandered off to another stall, leaving Alec standing alone. He followed her with his gaze until he saw her safely entrenched in a conversation with the stall owner, most likely about ribbons or colors or some other sort of ornamentation she would need to have and come bounding back to him for his purse. He smiled at the thought. Happy to give the lass whatever it was that would keep her spirits as high as they were.

He found himself staring at the other lass again. She never looked up, not once. There was a cloud of something over her, perhaps it was loneliness or mayhap grief. Whatever it was, Alec was drawn to her, wanting to ease whatever the cause was that kept her to herself. The brief glimpse he had of her smile, made him want to do something, anything to get her to smile more.

Dinnae be daft, man. Ye ken naethin’ of that lass.

Beitris came bounding back over abruptly, dislodging him from his thoughts. “Da, I think I’m almost done, but I dae have a few more stalls tae visit. Ye need nay wait fer me, I’ll have Gavin escort me home so ye dinnae have tae wait.”

“Dinnae stay out all day, mind ye,” he said before turning back to where Tavish stood waiting. They had business to attend at the tavern, and it was best Beitris occupy herself anywhere but the seedy watering hole. He looked across the village green his eye catching his war chief, Gavin Ross’s eye, the other man giving a quick nod of understanding. He was willing to give the lass some measure of freedom, but he would not trust her protection to just anyone.

“Of course not, Faither,” the young lass promised.

Alec mounted his horse and gave the quiet lass one more glance before he headed back across the green to Tavish. She was still sitting, quietly bundling her plants. Alec shook his head to clear it and when he met up with his friend, the younger laird had a look that Alec had seen a time or two before.

“Dinnae start, McNair,” Alec warned, already preparing himself for what his friend would harp on about.

“I’m nae saying a word,” Tavish said with a smirk, leaning down to gently nudge and pet his beastie as if the men had all the time in the world to gallivant through the village green.

“I was only checking on me lass.” Alec shifted in his saddle uncomfortably and not liking the fact that his friend could read him so well. It was better to admit to fatherly interest in his daughter than have Tavish relentlessly goad him if he truly knew it was the sober lass who caught his eye.

“Just that it seems Beitris’s friend may have caught yer attention?” Tavish cocked up and eyebrow. “Have ye suddenly remembered ye aren’t so old tae notice a woman?”

“Shut yer gab, Tavish,” Alec chuffed. “Ye ken I’ve nay interest in love or lassies. I’ve noticed naethin’ save me own daughter.”

“Perhaps… I only argue that it’s perfectly reasonable fer ye tae find interest in a bonny lass,” Tavish held his arms up in mock surrender. “And the lass is bonny, if nae a bit sullen.”

Alec’s jaw tightened. “I dinnae need a lecture from the likes of ye. Ye’re nay more than a bairn yerself.”

“Nae a lecture, me friend, simply lookin’ tae help ye. It’s been years now that ye kept the idea of love at a distance from ye. I’m here as yer friend, tae tell ye there’s naethin’ wrong wi’ takin’ notice of a lass from time tae time.”

In truth, there was something about the lass that drew his attention, but it was best that Alec not think too much on such things.

Tavish was younger, by years. He had not yet felt the brutal sting of a love gone cold or sour. He knew not what it was like when the folly of youth gave way to the reality of age. Nor did the lass for that matter. She deserved laughter along with a fresh love. Not some leering laird twice her age.

“Plus, I can see wi’ me own two eyes what it is ye’re lookin’ at,” the younger laird gave a sly wink.

“Yer eyes have always had a special talent in keepin’ ye deceived,” he growled.

Tavish laughed. “I think ye’re probably right. Just seems tae me ye were checking on the wrong lass.”

Alec chose not to reply, but the younger laird’s words lingered in his thoughts. Tavish was brash and vexing, but he was often too right for his own good.

Alec kept his gaze forward, as they rode back to the keep from the village. He wasn’t interested in conversation or being teased. He would not let his friend goad him into a discussion about his daughter’s friends. Yet, despite it all, he could not help it if his mind lingered on the lass with the neatly stacked herbs, the quiet voice, and the faintest spark of a smile that had cause her hazel eyes to briefly shine.

 

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Chapter One

Scotland, 1629

She sighed in relief when she saw the tavern. The village may have had areas where one could communally tend to their needs, but Mairi Cameron did not want to risk catching the eye of an eager man looking to talk, or worse, ask her to dance.

Perhaps I could duck inside unnoticed tae find a decent privy.

Mairi slipped away from the village square where nearby clans, along with her own kin, Clan Cameron, had gathered for the summer harvest celebration. There were bonfires lit in every corner, children chasing one another through the stalls, and men shouting over cups of ale. With the company of her two brothers and her sister-in-law, Mairi had been there nearly two hours already. She had also seen her good friend Beitris which always brought a smile to her face.

Inside, it was louder than the clearing, but the noise was of a different sort. Mairi pushed herself through the crowded entry, immediately regretting her choice. Each table and seat was taken up by clansmen tossing back tankards of ale and serving wenches weaving their way in and out of raucous bodies and grabbing hands.

There must be men from every clan in the Highlands here.

She noticed one clansman in particular. He was sitting at a table on his own, no other men around him and no serving wench offering her attention. He had dark brown hair that was touched slightly with gray on the temples: Mairi thought it made him look older than he was. She was struck by how handsome he was, but it was the quiet power in his stance that caught her attention the most. He wasn’t looking at her, yet there was something about him—controlled, mysterious, and just dangerous enough to make her breath catch.

He looked up and met her gaze, and Mairi felt heat bloom across her skin, igniting everywhere his eyes touched. When he didn’t look away, her heart gave a sudden skip, flustered by the intensity of his attention. She tore her eyes from his and focused on the task at hand—finding the privy.

In all the time she’d spent in the village, Mairi had never before set foot in the tavern. Even though she was a fully grown woman at twenty-three years of age, she was sure her brothers would be none too pleased if either of them knew she was in there. Especially if they happened to see her smile at a lonely clansman. It was near unheard of for a laird’s sister to enter such a place unaccompanied by a guard.

Aye, ‘twill take me but a breath’s time.

Her brothers never had need to know. She stretched her neck, looking toward the back of the room, spying a stairwell and an alcove, in hopes of finding some indication that there was a private space.

Weaving her way through the crowd of clearly drunk villagers, the sights and smells she was enduring made her aware she would need a washbasin more than the privy itself by the time she made it to the back.

The laughter, the pipers, the endless chatter, it had all begun to claw at her nerves rather than lift her spirits. She’d slipped away for the privy, but truly, she’d only meant to catch her breath, if only for a moment.

“Aye, now there’s a bonnie young lass, Gunther” a low voice muttered behind her, slurred but steady enough to twist her gut. “Wanderin’ in all on her own… Ye sure ye’re nae lost, hen?”

Mairi turned and stiffened at the sight of two hulking men stepping into her path. They were broad, unshaven, and swaying slightly from drink, though their eyes were sharp enough. One had a ragged scar across his cheek, the other a face so weatherworn it looked carved from bark. Both reeked of stale ale and sweat.

A chill traced her spine.

This is nae good…

“I reckon she’s here lookin’ fer company,” the scarred one grinned, Gunther she guessed, teeth yellowed and crooked. “Folk like us dinnae usually attract the gentle kind… unless they want a bit o’ rough.”

His gaze travelled slowly from the curve of her bodice to the hem of her skirts and the backs of his knuckles brushed along the edge of her sleeve. When he stretched a hand to grab her arm, Mairi jerked back before he could get a hold of her, her shoulder bumping hard against the wall of the stairwell behind her.

“Ye dinnae want the likes of me company, I assure ye,” Mairi tried to make her voice as deep as she could.

The one with the scar, Gunther, smelled of whisky and rancid meat. His presence loomed too close, his body heat slick and sour in the narrow space. Mairi’s gaze flicked across the tavern hoping to catch someone’s eye for help but everyone seemed to be occupied with their own pursuits, blind to her rising panic.

“Now, now,” the other man murmured, stepping closer, his gaze crawling over her like grime. “Nay need tae play shy. Nay lass comes in here alone by accident.” He came and stood beside her, cutting off her escape to the left. “And that corset of yers looks tight, love. I’m sure ye’d breathe easier with a man tae help.”

Saints above. How could any man speak such filth aloud?

“Why dinnae ye piss off, Wally, this lass is all mine,” Gunther growled, and without leaving her side, he gave Wally a push towards a near table. Mairi’s breath quickened, Gunther clearly was the more sinister of the two. With all his attention on her now, he brushed his fingers beneath her jaw, a touch as brazen as it was light. Mairi flinched, but the grin he gave her was slow and smug, as if her reaction was some small triumph.

She wanted to scream, but at that moment another shout came from the other side of the tavern and Mairi saw not a head lift. No, screaming would do her no good there and her situation was a bit more dire than she had thought at first.

I cannae let them get hold of me…

She thought briefly about revealing that her brother was Struan, Laird of Clan Cameron, but she didn’t recognize either man from Achnacarry Castle or any of the surrounding crofts. With the festival and so many visiting clans, they could be from anywhere, and revealing her surname might do her more harm than good.

Her stomach continued to churn while she tried to find the space and back away from them. “Trust me, ye dinnae want any trouble wi’ me,” she said. Hoping the stern nature of her tone would be enough for them seek what they were looking for elsewhere and leave her be.

To Mairi’s haplessness, Gunther grabbed her wrist, attempting to pull her closer. “Come now, deary, dae ye nae want tae sit on me lap? We can keep each other warm.”

“The summer night is warm enough. Let me go!” she replied, louder now, trying hard to twist out of his grasp. Scanning her surroundings for something heavy enough to hit Gunther with, Mairi spied a tankard of ale on a nearby table.

If Ι could stretch far enough out of his grasp…

With a sudden jolt, she shifted her weight, pulling against him with all her strength. Her fingertips brushed the tankard once, then again, and on the third reach, she caught hold of it. Before Gunther could react, she raised it and struck him hard across the side of the head. The tankard connected with a dull crack, ale sloshing from the rim as the blow landed.

He cursed, stumbling backward with a hand to his temple.

Mairi slipped past him, skirts gathered in one hand and rushed toward the back of the tavern. In the corner, half-concealed by shadow and stacked crates, she saw a door she hadn’t noticed when she had entered. She wrenched it open and staggered outside.

As the fresh air hit her face, she was slightly relieved to no longer be smelling Gunther and his foulness. Her relief, however, was short-lived. The yard behind the tavern was empty, with no lanterns to mark the path back to the square, no laughter, no passersby or children roaming around.

A fresh wave of panic coiled in her chest. She turned once, then again, uncertain which way would lead her back to her kin the quickest.

Behind her, the door creaked open and Mairi turned just in time to see Gunther step out, one hand still pressed to his head, the other already curled into a fist.

“I was tryin’ tae be civil,” he muttered, his tone low and livid. “But ye want it rough, is that it? Have ye ever been kissed lass? Am I going tae be yer first?”

Her pulse pounded. She had never been kissed, and she definitely didn’t plan on letting that awful man steal it away from her. She backed up until her spine met the stone wall of the tavern, the cold pressing through her gown. Even in the waning daylight, she cast a desperate glance toward the path, hoping that someone might hear her, might recognize her and try tae fetch her brothers.

I should’ve told Finlay or Struan I was steppin’ away. Now nay one kens where I am.

Gunther lunged, seizing her wrist with brute force. He squeezed her tighter, his hand grabbing at her skirts, his breathing becoming heavy and labored.

“Ye’re naught but a brute! Let me go!” she yelled and closed her eyes tightly. She was not sure what he planned fully but she struggled against his weight all the same.

“Let the lass go!”

Mairi forced herself to open her eyes at the sound of another man in the ally. His voice was low but fierce and compelling, followed by a deep growl.

In a flash of pure muscle and heat, Gunther was flung from her, and she was free. The crash was deafening as he landed against the outer back wall of the tavern opposite the corner he had had her pressed against, sliding down with eyes closed, and making nothing but a grunt.

Mairi watched in horror as Gunther then tried to get up again and like a flash of lightening the other man was on top of him. Mairi instantly recognized him as the man she had noticed earlier sitting alone in the tavern. The intensity of his gaze now solely focused on Gunther as he pummeled the man again and again.

“Why dae ye nae try tae fight a man?” her protector said as he pulled Gunther up by his shirt and held him against the wall. “Ye seemed tae be lookin’ fer a fight, well here I am. Or would ye rather stay on yer arse against the wall ye coward?”

His voice was smooth and calm, which Mairi thought was in direct contrast to the rage of his actions, but the undertone was one of deadly intent. This was a man who was used to battle. Her protector turned toward her and she gave a yell as she watched Gunther come up behind him trying to land a blow, but he didn’t stand much of a chance against the other man’s speed and strength.

“I dinnae think so.”

Mairi watched as he strode toward Gunther and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. He tossed the vile man to the ground with as little effort as it would have taken her to throw a coverlet onto her bed.

He looks like fury incarnate…

His effortless strength stirred something in her. Gunther landed with a thud, and Mairi could see he was out cold.

She bent over in relief clutching her stomach, wincing from the pain in her wrist, but luckily, she was not harmed any more than that. The scent of stale whisky was replaced by something woodsy and fresh. She looked up to see her protector staring down at her, his eyes the most remarkable shade of icy blue. And standing this close to her she was easily lost in their depths.

“Are ye alright, lass?” The man’s voice was even, but thick with… concern? Hardly the tone she would have expected, witnessing how he had just hurled another man across a yard like a sack of oats. She wasn’t sure why, but his sheer size and presence made the tension in her shoulders ease.

“Aye.” She rubbed her wrist where Gunther had held tight.

“Please, can I take a look?”

Before she could refuse because it was improper, his hand closed around hers. His fingers were large, the skin callused, but his touch was careful, almost reverent. He turned her wrist left and right, making sure she had suffered no cuts or bruises.

Now that he was standing so close, she caught the faint creases that lined the corners of his eyes, the kind that came from sun and time both. He was surely ten years her elder, if not more, but he was all the same handsome. His eyes were hard and searching. And now Mairi felt a lightness in her head for an entirely different reason.

“Ye could’ve been terribly hurt, lass.”

“’Tis naethin’, just a twinge. I appreciate yer aid, truly.” Mairi gently eased her hand from his grasp feeling out of control while his skin was on hers. “But ye’ve done more than enough. I can find me way. Ye can get back tae yer drink now, if ye wish.”

“Aye? Is that so?”

“I’ll be fine on me own.” She truly didn’t wish to keep the man any longer. The way he looked at her was doing something unfamiliar to her insides. And while she was grateful, she did not want to be any more of a burden.

The man arched a brow, his lips twitching with the faintest hint of amusement. “Fergive me then, I must have mistaken the part where ye nearly got dragged intae the alley by that drunken swine.”

Mairi straightened her spine, brushing the dust from her skirts in brisk strokes, more for the sake of composure than any real need.

Who daes this man think he is? Speaking tae me as if he means tae scold me.

Still… she hadn’t minded the way his hand had steadied hers. Which was daft, really. She did not know the man.

Shaking the thought off with a small breath, she said, “He caught me by surprise, that’s all. I could’ve handled him.”

Settling his weight against the stone wall, the man crossed his arms over his expansive chest, broader than any she had seen. Mairi, to her own dismay, noted the rise and fall of it. His gaze swept over her face with a wry glint. “I suppose next time, ye’ll battle him tae the ground yerself, then?”

“If it comes tae it,” she replied, lifting her chin.

“Saints preserve me. And here I thought I was rescuin’ a damsel in need.”

“A grateful one,” she countered and took a step closer to the tavern. “But nae helpless.”

His smile widened, and he gestured toward the door. “At least allow me tae treat ye tae a dram of cider. That way I’ll sleep better kennin’ ye didnae collapse from pride in the middle of the floor.”

Mairi hesitated, for she had half a mind to refuse to prove her point. But her knees wobbled slightly as she shifted her weight. With a reluctant breath, she gave a small nod.

The man stepped ahead of her, pushing open the tavern door. Mairi squeezed past him and felt the warmth of his hand as it accidentally brushed her waist. She jumped back, and he gave her a smirk, guiding her toward the empty corner table where he had been sitting earlier. Mairi noticed now that it was more secluded than the other tables and overlooked the whole tavern. She glanced up at him, and he inclined his head.

“Sit here.”

There was no force in the command, but something about the way he spoke left little room for argument. Mairi sank onto the bench, her legs grateful for the support. The man lifted a hand to catch the eye of the serving lass, and in no time, he placed a warm clay cup between Mairi’s palms.

“Drink this.”

Willing her hands to steady as she put the cup to her lips, she sipped the sweet, warmed cider. Heat unfurled in her chest, steadying her somewhat. As she lowered the cup, her gaze found, unbidden, the man seated across from her.

“Thank ye again, ‘tis good.” She nodded, feeling the awkwardness of her words, but she supposed it was better than staring at the man in silence.

“It’ll help calm ye nerves.”

Who is he?

Mairi didn’t recognize him, not that it was a surprise. It had been years since she’d last attended one of these gatherings and socialized with people outside her kin. Her brothers had tried to coax her out over the seasons, but joy, especially in crowded places, had started to feel like something meant for other people.

She had only agreed to go this time because it was her sister-in-law Isolde’s first public appearance as Lady of Clan Cameron, after her wedding to her oldest brother, Struan. It had mattered that Mairi be there to support her family. She’d told herself she could manage it, and for the first hour or so, she’d even believed it.

But now? Now she found herself seated beside a stranger with hands rough as old rope and shoulders broad enough to block out half the tavern light.

“So, tell me,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “dae ye make a habit of wanderin’ intae taverns and ensnarin’ men with that bonny smile of yers?”

Is he… flirting?

“It’s actually me first time in a place like this,” she answered, lifting the cup to her lips to steady herself. “And I cannae say I’m eager tae return.” She drained the drink and met his eyes—only to find them already fixed on her, unblinking.

“A lass like ye shouldnae be wanderin’ about alone,” he said, catching her eyes with the full weight of his. Before she could ask what exactly he meant by a lass like her, he added, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

He stood, and Mairi’s gaze followed him as he strode toward the serving lass.

He strode back to the table, with a cup in his hands, sliding one over to her again and keeping the other for himself as he stared down at her.

Taking the seat beside her, the bench creaked beneath his weight. He drunk and set his cup down with a thud on the table between them, the scent of something stronger than cider rising from it.

“I guess I needed a bit as well,” he laughed.

Mairi stared at the half-empty cup in her hands, then took another sip. More for something to do than for thirst.

“I’ll have them bring ye another, if ye like.”

Mairi shook her head. “One is plenty. I dinnae make a habit of sittin’ in taverns with men I dinnae ken.”

“Then I’m honored.”

That earned from her the barest flicker of a smile.

“And perhaps I ought tae change that and introduce meself.” He leaned forward just slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Alec,” he said simply, offering his name as if it was a courtesy.

Mairi’s breath caught, unexpectedly. The sound of his voice saying his own name stirred something low and warm in her belly.

It suits him, firm and without pretense, but not unkind.

“I… I should return tae me kin,” she said and rose slowly already turning toward the door.

Across from her, the man stood as well, unhurried and solid, and they walked together outside of the tavern. She could see Struan and Isolde laughing in the distance and just before she said goodbye, Alec reached out, his hand curling gently around hers.

The touch stopped her as surely as the stone wall, stealing the breath from her lungs.

Heat sparked up her arm at the contact, and for a moment she forgot entirely what she meant to say. Her gaze flew to his, wide and uncertain, and when she found his blue piercing eyes, her chest felt too tight for air.

“I mean only tae see ye safely returned,” he said, his voice low. “Just in case that filthy brute tries tae follow ye.”

“We’re nae far from the festival square, and I can actually see me kin from here. I’ll manage,” she said, her voice low, unconsciously matching his. But her words betrayed her. She made no move to step back, her body refusing to obey the part of her that knew she should.

She swallowed, then added, softer, “But… thank ye, Alec. Fer steppin’ in. I—fer a moment, I truly thought that man was going tae dae the things he threatened. Tae kiss me. And worse.”

His jaw ticked, and something cold flickered through his gaze before he mastered it. “Nay thanks are necessary, lass.”

He leaned in, not touching her, but close enough that the air seemed to tighten around them. The sounds of the street, the festival, even her own thoughts faded to silence.

“I am curious tae ken though…” His voice dropped further. “Have ye ever been kissed?”

“Nay,” she breathed before she could consider her answer.

What am I daeing?! What a foolish thing tae confess tae a stranger.

“I would think ye might want tae be?” He inched closer—but not enough to steal the moment. There was still space between them, just enough for her to walk away if she wished.

But she didn’t.

Without realizing what she was doing, whether it was the way he had shown her protection and kindness or the warmth of the cider, Mairi found herself leaning up toward him in response.

His lips touched hers with the barest hint of pressure, and Mairi let out a small sigh. His hand rose to cup her cheek, the warmth of his palm deepening the slow-burning heat curling through her chest.

She had never been this bold. Realizing what she was doing she pulled back looking into his eyes and seeing that same heat she felt low in her belly.

“I need tae leave,” she whispered, breaking the fragile connection between them before it could turn into something her body wasn’t ready to refuse.

What if someone saw them?

What if me braither did?

He’d be furious and righteous and it would be impossible to explain it to him.

“Aye,” Alec said, voice rougher now. “Best go before I dae something we both might regret.”

She gathered herself with a breath, then turned and stepped back into the swell of festival noise and torchlight. She could not help but feel the weight of his gaze following her until she reached her brother and forced a smile, pretending that night had been anything but extraordinary.

Chapter Two

Me Dearest Mairi,

I dae hope ye made it back tae Achnacarry Castle without incident this past night. Oh, how I feel we didnae see each other at all during the festival. I ken we did have a few, fleeting moments, but I dae so enjoy yer company and wish we had had longer.

So, I have come up with a brilliant idea and would love fer ye tae come tae me home and spend the remaining parts of summer as me guest at the MacMillan keep. Think of all the fun we could have taegether.

Plus, it would be a boon tae have ye here with me fer days and nights, we would nae have tae worry about a thing. Me faither has agreed, and he has even offered tae hold yer horse in our stables should ye choose tae ride here.

Please say ye will come.

I look forward tae yer reply.

Yers in eternal friendship,

Beitris MacMillan

***

Dearest Beitris,

I have received yer missive and am honored by the invitation ye have extended me tae stay with ye at yer family stronghold. As ye ken, these few years have been rather difficult fer me family, and especially fer me. Yer kindness has been a light in me life after so much loss.

Fer the sake of honesty and our friendship, which I treasure, I will admit I was hesitant tae say yes tae yer invitation, despite so enjoying our time taegether.

However, after discussing with me family, I realize that spending time with ye and yer family may be just what I need.

So with an open heart, I will accept yer invitation. I look forward tae arriving within a few days’ time.

Yers in friendship and heart,

Mairi Cameron

***

“Tis’ nae as large as Achnacarry, is it?” her older brother Finlay asked with a bit of humor as their horses pulled up to the MacMillan stronghold. Though he was right, the keep was still lovely. Being so close to the noon hour, the sun high, Mairi liked the way the rays played on the gardens and fields around the keep. Everything was still a vibrant green from the gentle summer rain that had fallen the day prior.

“Tis’ nae, but it is lovely just the same,” she replied. Perhaps spending time there would help soothe her grief and push her to begin to seek company again, with Beitris at her side. Being away from family would be difficult, but she could think of no better place to do so than there.

After frequent encounters on village errands, Beitris’s boundless energy and kind nature had slowly worn down Mairi’s guard. Even though Beitris was only eighteen, five years her junior, over time she had managed to become the only person outside her kin Mairi felt at ease with. For that, Mairi was ever grateful.

Finlay helped her down from her horse, and Mairi adjusted her footing as she took hold of the reins. She barely had time to steady herself before the doors of the keep opened wide.

Beitris rushed down the keep steps and grabbed Mairi in a tight embrace.

“Ye’re here!” she said pulling back and giving Finlay a nod. “I trust yer journey was uneventful?”

“A bit of rain, but all told smooth,” Mairi replied.

“I’m so excited ye’ve agreed tae visit.”

“Of course, ‘tis a pleasure tae be here.” Mairi smiled at her friend, and she meant it. She was glad her oldest brother, Struan, and his wife, Isolde, had convinced her to spend some time away from the castle. They said it would be good for her and Mairi, while hesitant, understood why.

A sad smile tugged at her lips at the memory of how carefree she had once been.

When she was younger, Mairi had relished those summer mornings spent roaming the hills near Achnacarry Castle like every other girl her age. She and her older sister, Rhona, would slip away early to play hide-and-seek behind the gorse bushes or chase each other along the loch’s edge until their laughter echoed across the water.

But those memories felt far away now. After her parents and had Rhona passed away, Mairi had stopped attending activities. She found comfort only in the shelter of the keep and the closeness of her brothers. Out there, among all the merriment, she felt unmoored and exposed.

‘Tis a chance fer me coming here…

“Now, let’s get these horses stabled. Would ye join us fer supper, Finlay? I’ve instructed a place be set fer ye if ye like,” Beitris said and signaled towards the stables for them to go. “Me faither apologizes he couldnae be here tae greet ye both, clan business took him tae the village this afternoon.”

“Nay, me lady, once I see Mairi settled in, I’ll be headin’ back. I have much tae help me braither with around Achnacarry, and I dinnae wish tae delay.”

“Very well. Let’s get Mairi’s settled then, shall we?”

Finlay took the reins from Mairi’s hand, so the women could walk together arm and arm.

After seeing to the horses, Beitris led them to the keep’s great hall. Mairi followed alongside Finlay, her steps light upon the packed earth as they passed through the courtyard and beneath the arched stone entryway.

As Mairi took in the decoration in the hall, Beitris explained the history of her clan to Finlay. She was an excellent hostess. Mairi noted her friend had an effortless charm, and if she could keep the normally gruff and detached Finlay interested in the conversation, she truly was a treasure indeed.

Her attention was soon taken by loud footfalls coming up from behind.

“Oh, ye’ve made it back,” Beitris took Mairi’s arm turning her toward the man who had just entered the keep’s great hall.

“This must be the friend ye’ve told me much about. Lady Mairi Cameron,” he said.

Mairi froze at the sound of a deep, familiar voice coming across the room.

‘Tis nae possible…

A chill shot down her spine. Slowly, she turned, her eyes finding the source.

Alec…

Mairi’s thoughts scrambled to catch up. She’d spent the better part of last week, not thinking of the man who had cornered her outside that tavern… but the one who’d stepped in and helped her. The man who kissed her and had been impossible for her to forget.

Now, he was standing next to her best friend, a smile on his face as he turned his gaze upon Mairi.

“And her braither, Finlay Cameron.”

She might’ve convinced herself she’d imagined the whole tavern encounter… if not for the quick intense look he offered her just before shaking her brother’s hand.

Mairi’s breath hitched. A low, unwelcome heat unfurled in her chest.

“Faither,” Beitris reached the man, who wrapped Mairi’s friend in a tight embrace and placed a light kiss on the top of her head.

He’s her faither?

Best selling books of Kenna

One month earlier, Constantine’s mercenary hut

The blade whistled past Constantine’s ear, close enough to feel the wind of its passing. He rolled sideways and came up in a crouch with his own sword already in hand, dark eyes scanning the treeline around his stone hut for the source of the attack.

Three men emerged from the shadows between the pines, their movements coordinated and purposeful.

These are MacLean colors…

Constantine’s jaw tightened as he recognized the tartan. He had never worn it himself, never been given the right, but he had studied it well enough over his thirty-two years of life. When he was old enough to wield a blade, he had made it his business to learn every thread of the clan that had cast him and his mother aside. The MacLean pattern was burned into his memory, a constant reminder of the laird who had made him a bastard and turned them out into the wilderness.

“Constantine MacLean,” the leader called, his voice carrying the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. “By order of Laird Niall MacLean, ye’re tae come with us tae Duart Castle.”

Constantine’s smile was cold. “Am I, now?”

The leader’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. “Aye. And ye’ll come willing, or we’ll drag ye there in chains.”

“Bold words,” Constantine observed, his voice carrying the deadly calm that had made him legendary among mercenaries across the country. “Let’s see if ye can make them true.”

They rushed him then, three trained warriors moving in practiced coordination. It should have been enough to overwhelm any single opponent. Should have been. But not for Constantine. He moved and an air of menace wrapped around him as his blade sung, parrying the first strike, countering with precision.

The leftmost attacker dropped with a cry, clutching a wounded shoulder. The leader pressed forward, trying to use his reach advantage, but Constantine was already inside his guard, elbow driving up into the man’s ribs with bone-crushing force.

The third man hesitated, seeing his companions fall, and that moment of doubt cost him everything. Constantine’s pommel strike caught him behind the ear, dropping him unconscious to the forest floor.

Silence settled over the clearing, broken only by the groaning of the wounded and the steady drip of blood on fallen leaves. Constantine walked and stood over the leader, who was struggling to breathe through what were likely cracked ribs.

He placed the tip of his sword against the man’s throat. “Now then,” Constantine said, “let’s discuss this summons properly.”

The leader’s eyes blazed with pain and fury, but he managed to speak. “Yer faither… needs ye.”

“What fer?” Constantine’s voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than a shout.

“The clan needs ye.”

Constantine studied the man’s face, reading the desperation beneath the bravado. Whatever had driven Niall to seek out his abandoned son, it wasn’t sentiment or belated paternal feeling. It could only be born out of necessity.

“Interesting,” Constantine murmured, removing his sword from the man’s throat. “And what daes the great Laird MacLean offer in exchange fer me… cooperation?”

“Everything,” the leader wheezed. “The clan, the lands, the title. All of it, if ye’ll come.”

He’s offering power.

Real, tangible power, not just the temporary authority that came from being the best swordsman in any given conflict.

Constantine had spent his years building his reputation with steel and blood, earning coin and respect through violence and skill. But this was something different. Something that could outlast his sword arm and his willingness to risk death for gold.

“Bind yer wounds,” Constantine commanded, stepping back. “We ride fer Duart within the hour.”

The leader struggled to sit up, confusion written across his battered features. “Ye’ll come?”

“I’ll hear what he has tae say,” Constantine corrected. “Whether I stay depends on what he’s truly offering.”

The ride to Duart Castle took two days, and Constantine used every mile to gather information from his reluctant escorts. The story that emerged was one of pride brought low by circumstance and mortality.

Niall’s legitimate heir, Fergus, had died in a battle. His daughter Lilias was intelligent and capable but far too young to rule a Highland clan in those turbulent times. With no male heirs and enemies pressing at the borders, Niall faced the collapse of everything he’d built.

Hence the summons to the bastard son he’d pretended didn’t exist for three decades.

Now he’ll taste the bitter draught he once poured fer me…

Constantine rode with his own men flanking him. Theo at his right hand as always, solid and dependable as stone, while Finlay ghosted through the forest with a half-dozen handpicked mercenaries. If this was a trap, Niall would learn that his bastard son hadn’t survived this long by trusting easily.

Duart Castle rose from the Highland mist like something from a fever dream, its ancient stones weathered by centuries of wind and warfare. Constantine had never seen it before, but something in his blood recognized the place his mother had been cast out from.

The great gates stood open and they rode into the courtyard, where servants and warriors gathered to stare. He dismounted with fluid grace, ignoring the whispers and pointed looks.

Let them stare.

He’d faced worse than curious eyes and survived.

“Ye must be Constantine.”

The voice came from the castle steps, where a young woman stood watching him with dark eyes full of curiosity. She was perhaps seventeen, with the kind of refined beauty that spoke of noble breeding and careful upbringing.

“Lilias, I presume,” Constantine said, inclining his head slightly.

Her smile was wary. “Aye. Faither’s waiting fer ye in his chambers.”

Constantine followed her through corridors that should have felt familiar but remained stubbornly foreign. This place had shaped his mother’s life and his own abandonment, but it held no emotional resonance for him. It was simply another stronghold, another seat of power to be evaluated and potentially claimed.

Niall MacLean was a shadow of whatever he’d once been. The man who sat propped up in the great chair beside his bed was gaunt and gray, his breathing labored and his eyes sunken.

“So,” Niall wheezed, studying Constantine with obvious assessment, “the bastard returns.”

“I never left,” Constantine replied coldly. “I was thrown out. There’s a difference.”

Niall’s laugh turned into a coughing fit that brought flecks of blood to his lips. “Aye, there is. But ye’re nae here fer me tae apologize, lad. Ye’re here because I have an offer tae offer tae make.”

“I’m listenin’.”

“The lairdship’s yers if ye want it. The clan, the lands, the authority tae command hundreds of warriors and rule over territory that stretches from sea tae mountain.” Niall’s eyes glittered with fever and determination. “All of it, if ye’re strong enough tae take it and hold it.”

Constantine remained silent, letting the offer hang in the air between them. Power was seductive, but it was also dangerous. Every throne had a price, and he suspected Niall’s would cost more than most.

“What are yer conditions?” he asked finally.

Niall smiled, the expression ghastly on his wasted features. “So ye are sharp, then. Very well. The clan elders willnae accept a bastard mercenary as their laird, nae matter what I decree. Ye need legitimacy beyond me word.”

“Marriage,” Constantine guessed.

“Tae a woman of noble blood. Someone whose bloodline is beyond question, whose alliance brings strength tae the clan.” Niall leaned forward in his chair, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “Dae that, and I’ll name ye me legitimate heir before the entire clan. Refuse and I’ll have tae force a marriage alliance tae ye.”

“I accept,” Constantine said simply. He would choose his own lass before ever letting Niall meddle in his affairs. If he was to rule, it would be on his own terms.

Niall sagged back in his chair, relief written across his features. “Good. I’ve already begun making inquiries among the neighboring clans. There are several suitable candidates—”

“Nay.” Constantine’s voice cut through the older man’s words like a blade. “I’ll choose me own bride. When I find her, ye’ll legitimize the match. Until then, I rule as yer heir apparent and ye’ll nae dae anythin’.”

Niall’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded slowly. “Agreed. But ye have less than a season. I’ll nae live tae see another winter, and the clan needs stability.”

Constantine left Niall MacLean sitting alone in his chamber. He found Theo and Finlay waiting for him outside the chamber.

“Well?” Theo asked quietly as they descended the castle steps.

“We stay,” Constantine replied. “Fer now. But keep the men ready. If things get too complicated, we need men of our own.”

As they walked toward the quarters they’d been assigned, Constantine found his thoughts turning to the future. He was about to take on responsibilities that would change everything: a clan to lead, enemies to face, and eventually a wife to claim.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. The bastard son who’d been cast out as worthless had returned to claim everything his father had built. But Constantine MacLean had learned long ago that life’s greatest victories often came disguised as impossible odds.

He just hoped he was ready for whatever came next.

 

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

 

Don’t miss your link for the whole book at the end of the preview.

Chapter One

Scotland, 1293

Rowena MacKenzie would have done anything to get away.

The rope chafed against her wrists as Gregor hauled her from the saddle, his meaty hands gripping her arms with bruising force. Her horse snorted and danced sideways, sensing her distress, but there was nowhere to run. Dense Highland forest pressed in on all sides, and Hamish, the second man that had come after her and managed to get her, blocked the only clear path with his mount.

They both looked at her like she was nothing more than a runaway horse to be corralled and returned to her stall.

“Thought ye could slink off like a wee mouse, did ye?” Gregor’s breath reeked of ale and rotted teeth. “Alpin’s been waiting in the chapel since first light. Nae very bride-like, leavin’ yer groom coolin’ his heels, eh?”

Rowena lifted her chin, meeting his leering gaze with all the defiance she could muster. “He is nae me groom. I never agreed tae this farce!”

Hamish barked a laugh, sharp enough to startle the birds overhead. “Agreed? Ye think a lass like ye gets a say in who her husband is? Yer faither’s dead. Alpin’s the laird now, and if he says ye’ll wed this day, then wed ye will.”

“Me faither named me his heir—”

“Aye? And what good is a lass fer an heir with nay husband tae guide her?” Gregor yanked her forward, and she stumbled. “Alpin’s done right by the clan, taking the lead in a time of need. With him the power stays within the kin, with a man who kens how tae use it.”

How easily they all are tae forget their own. Alpin’s nae even part of the kin! He only wormed his way close tae faither because he’s me step-maither’s braither.

They pulled her closer to the horse, and when Rowena struggled, Hamish tightened his hold on her, wrenching her back by the upper arm. The rope around her wrists bit into raw skin as she twisted, fighting to loosen the knot through sheer friction. Every tug made her wrists burn, but she couldn’t stop. She needed a way out.

Rowena’s gaze darted around, taking in every shadow and thicket. The forest was dense here, but not impenetrable. If she could break free, if she could run, there might be a path hidden just beyond the rise to her left, where the trees thinned and a narrow game trail curved out of sight. But she’d only get one chance. One wrong move and they’d have her flat on her face, bound tighter, or worse.

“He has nay blood claim,” she said, her voice steady despite the panic clawing at her chest. “The elders will nae stand fer it—”

“They will accept what they’re told tae.” Hamish’s tone had the lazy cruelty of a man who’d never heard the word no. “Our new laird’s already got his bride in hand, and the priest ready tae bless it.”

Rowena’s mind raced. Once those vows were spoken, there would be no undoing them. Alpin would have a legal claim to everything: her inheritance, her clan, her very body. The thought made her stomach churn. She could not let her people suffer from his hunger for power.

“Besides,” Gregor muttered, adjusting his grip as if she were nothing more than a sack of grain, “ye ought tae be grateful. Alpin could’ve secured his place any number o’ ways. Marriage is the kindest.”

The threat hung in the air like a cloud of smoke. Rowena understood perfectly. Resist the marriage, and there might be an unfortunate accident. A grieving uncle, forced to take control of a clan left leaderless by tragedy.

“He’s been patient with ye,” Hamish said, reining his horse nearer. “But patience wears thin. Today, ye’ll be his wife. Time ye made yersel’ useful as a woman should.”

Heat flooded Rowena’s cheeks at the crude implication, but she forced herself to remain calm. Panic would serve no one, least of all the people who were still counting on her to protect them from Alpin’s rule.

Had any of them truly believed in me faither’s choice? Or had they simply been waiting fer an excuse tae set aside a female heir they’d never wanted?

The bitter thought twisted in her chest. Perhaps this betrayal had been inevitable from the moment her father had named her successor instead of seeking a male cousin to inherit the lairdship of Clan MacKenzie.

Gregor began pulling her toward his mount, and Rowena let her feet drag against the leafy ground, buying precious seconds to think. The forest around them was thick, unfamiliar territory she’d never explored. But unfamiliar might mean unguarded paths, routes these men wouldn’t expect her to run to.

“On with ye, then,” Hamish called. “Alpin’s got the whole clan gathered. It’ll dae ye nay good tae keep them waiting.”

As Gregor bent to boost her onto his saddle, Rowena saw her chance. The man’s attention was split between controlling his restless horse and maintaining his grip on her. Hamish was several paces away, confident in his partner’s ability to handle one desperate woman.

They’d underestimated her.

Rowena drove her elbow back into Gregor’s ribs with every ounce of strength she possessed.

Oh me God, I cannae believe I did this!

He doubled over with a grunt of pain, his grip loosening just enough for her to wrench free. Her hands were still bound, but the rope had begun to fray; she’d been working at it nonstop, twisting and pulling while they dragged her. She spun toward her own mount, but Hamish was already spurring his horse forward, his face dark with rage.

“Ye little—”

Rowena vaulted onto her horse’s back and dug her heels in hard. The mare leaped forward, crashing through the undergrowth as shouts erupted behind her. Branches whipped at her face and tore at her dress, but she leaned low over the horse’s neck and urged her faster.

Behind her, she could hear the thunder of pursuit beginning, the crash of bodies through the forest, and Hamish’s voice roaring orders. But for the first time since dawn, when she’d awakened to find her chamber door barred and Alpin’s men standing guard, Rowena felt a fierce spark of hope.

I willnae be dragged tae that altar. Nae today.

The forest opened ahead of her, and she, Rowena MacKenzie would do anything to get away and halt, even for a moment, the vicious plans of the uncle she had come to despise with all her heart.

The wind snatched at her unbound red hair and stung her eyes. The rhythmic pounding of her horse’s hooves against the muddy earth was a relentless drumbeat, echoing the frantic hammer of her heart.

Rowena’s eyes darted through the blurring trees as she searched desperately for any familiar landmark, any sign that she was not utterly lost, but there was none.

There were only endless woods and the loud echo of hooves pounding the forest floor. The chilling certainty that her step-uncle’s men were closing in on her. She’d glimpsed the determined faces of men who enjoyed a hunt.

“Ye can dae this, ye can,” she muttered to herself, trying to keep the panic from clawing at her throat. “Think, Rowena. Ye can always find a way.”

She urged the mare on. The loyal creature was clearly at its limit, and her lungs were raw from the frigid air she gulped in, but she would not stop. She would not yield. Submission meant a fate far worse than the biting cold.

Her heart slammed furiously against her chest. He is nae going tae force me tae marry him.

She had to escape, to fight with every fiber of her being until she drew her last breath. A new wave of fear ripped her from her thoughts as a brutal crashing sound drew close.

The hulking brute named Gregor, was gaining on her. “Stop now, lass, or we’ll run ye down!” he yelled. “The laird said tae bring ye back alive, but he didnae say ye need tae be in one piece!” His horse was a dark blur through the trees, and its heavy breathing was almost louder than her ragged gasps.

Laird Alpin. Rowena scoffed mirthlessly. It surely hasn’t taken the fùdar any time tae get comfortable.

The man’s hand lashed out, his fingers grazing the edge of her gown. “Ye cannae run forever!” he barked. “I’ll have ye soon enough, and ye’ll wish I hadnae!”

Rowena’s eyes went wide with terror, but she spun with a snarl. “Ye’ll have tae kill me first!”

There was no time to think. With a surge of adrenaline, she yanked hard on the reins and forced her exhausted horse into a gap barely wide enough to squeeze through.

Gregor’s larger warhorse crashed against the rough, unyielding rock. Its rider cursed loudly as he was thrown off course, buying Rowena a few precious seconds.

The terrain grew rougher still, and the path narrowed to little more than a deer trail, winding through thickets of thorny gorse and tangled roots that threatened to ensnare the mare’s legs. She pushed the horse, exhausting the animal’s last reserves, and they suddenly burst into a clearing that gave way to an open bank.

A vast shimmering expanse appeared before her. A loch!

Its surface was a sheet of steel grey under the shifting clouds. It was wide and still, reflecting the bleak morning sky.

Hope surged in her chest. For one reckless moment, she imagined herself plunging into its depths, losing herself beneath the cold water, and leaving her pursuers to search in vain. But the thought vanished as quickly as it came. She didn’t know how deep the waters would be, or whether the weight of her soaked gown would pull her under. She had come too far to risk losing her life in a desperate bid to vanish.

Her thighs ached from riding, every muscle tight from gripping the saddle too long. The cold bit at her face, but her back was damp with sweat beneath her cloak, her breath misting in shallow, ragged bursts. She had not dared to stop, not even once. Her fingers, stiff around the reins, trembled from more than the chill.

She urged the weary horse towards the pebbled shore, desperate for anything but the suffocating press of the forest. Anything but the gnawing fear that she would hear hoofbeats again behind her.

A part of her longed to stop. Just for a breath. To dismount, to gather herself, to be something more than a hunted thing. But there was no time. No place safe enough for composure.

Just as her horse skidded to a halt on the wet stones, Rowena tumbled from the saddle. Her knees buckled on impact, and she tried to catch herself but her body betrayed her as she tumbled into the water and bumped into something hard.

Her breath caught in her throat when she looked up and found that she had stumbled not into something but into someone. A man. It didn’t help that she was on her backside and the bottom of her dress was wet from the encounter. She moved backwards in a bid to preserve her dignity.

“I’m so sorry!” Rowena said as she walked out of the loch hurriedly. Her eyes settled on the man, and she managed to suppress her gasp.

He was tall, impossibly broad-shouldered, and standing waist-deep in the loch. His body was honed muscle, cords of strength roping around him. His nude form rose from the dark water like some ancient god emerging from the mists of time.

The sight stole the very air from her lungs. God, he’s handsome… and naked!

His hair, black as a raven’s wing, was slicked back from a face made of granite. Sharp cheekbones fell upon a jaw that seemed carved from ice. Water streamed in powerful rivulets down his chest and sculpted arms, and they gleamed in the light.

He dipped his head into the water, and as he rose back up, he cupped his face with both hands. His hands slid up his face and over his head, drops of water splashing back into the loch. His eyes were sharp, piercing blue, and utterly devoid of surprise. They stripped away her last defenses with an unnerving glance, making Rowena shiver.

Her gaze lingered a moment too long, drawn to the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his stance as the man started swimming, unfazed by her presence there, closer to the loch’s edge. Her breath hitched, and she stumbled. It wasn’t proper staring at a naked man, and yet she couldn’t seem to look away until her misstep reminded her just how foolish she was being.

The frantic shouts of her uncle’s men echoing through the trees, was what yanked her back to the present. She froze, trapped between her hunters and the shocking presence of this wild, powerful stranger. Her tongue, so often quick with a retort, had completely failed her now.

“Please, ye must help me, Sir.” Rowena refused to dwell on how undignified it was to plead a naked man for help in the middle of the woods. God above…

One of his brows lifted, carved and unbothered. “And why, lass, would I dae that? I dinnae even ken ye.” His voice was low and rough as a storm breaking, and it nearly knocked the breath from her throat.

Although she knew it was a fair question—helping her could put him in harm’s way. What had she expected? That a stranger would leap to her aid without so much asking for a name, without knowing who chased her? Or, most importantly, why?

The sensible part of her understood his caution. But desperation had no patience for reason. He was all she had now, the last thread between her and everything Alpin meant to do to her. She could not afford his doubt, even if it was well earned. Her life hung in the balance.

“I ken I ask much,” she said, her voice steady despite the dread rising in her throat. “But me life’s in danger. If they catch me, I lose everything. So I beg ye, lend me yer hand.”

The man regarded her with a curious air. He walked out of the loch as if he had all the time in the world, water sliding off his exquisite body in rivulets. Rowena had half expected him to scramble out and rush to his clothes, or to command her to turn around. He did none of that.

Instead, he held her gaze as he reached the shoreline, one brow lifted and a flicker of something close to a smirk touched his mouth, like he knew exactly what he looked like and didn’t see the point in modesty.

Then, with maddening ease, he said, “How ken I help ye?” His tone was demanding, and Rowena felt she’d succeeded to gain his interest. Whether it was a good thing, she wasn’t sure.

Rowena turned her face away as he walked to the pile of belongings, but not before she caught a glimpse of his lower body, which sent heat flooding through her in a way she didn’t understand. Her heart hammered against her ribs—not from fear this time, but from something else entirely. Nothing could have prepared her for this strange pull in her belly, this awareness that seemed to awaken parts of herself she hadn’t known existed.

“Have ye never seen a naked man before?” She heard him huff a laugh, but she kept her back turned. Though she refused to look, her cheeks warmed at the boldness of his question.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed him picking up his clothes, putting them on with an idle pace. “Now, what’s got a pretty woman such as ye approaching a stranger for help?” His movements were almost dismissive of the approaching danger.

How can he be so calm?

Armed men were bearing down on them, and he was dressing as if he had all the time in the world. What kind of man reacted to an imminent threat with such casual indifference? Had she stumbled upon a madman?

“They are coming,” she said breathlessly, the only words she could utter. “They’re close.” Her hand trembled as she gestured wildly towards the forest. “Two men on horses are after me! I dinnae ken them. Please!”

He continued to dress like he had all the time in the world, and Rowena bit her lips in worry.

I havenae come this far just tae be dragged back tae Alpin!

But she was helpless against the chase of her pursuers and this stranger. She was meant to be back home, readying to find a suitable spouse so she could take over her father’s legacy. How had she ended up here?

She looked back at the man and found eyes that assessed her with a cold, piercing gaze that missed nothing. Rowena felt the urge to straighten, to lift her chin and meet that scrutiny head-on, as if passing whatever unspoken judgment he was rendering might somehow secure his help.

The man seemed to have found what he was looking for in her, because he finally nodded. His gaze flicked to the trees. “Hide then, behind the mound. Take yer horse with ye. Dinnae come out until I come tae ye.” He pulled his kilt around his waist as he delivered the promise: “And worry nae. I willnae allow any harm tae come tae ye. Ye have me word.”

Relief washed over her so swiftly it nearly brought her to her knees. For the first time in weeks after her father’s death, someone had taken a burden from her shoulders, even if only for a moment. She nodded, almost dazed, willing herself to move.

She should have asked what his plan was and questioned how he intended to stop a hunting party of two armed men. But her body ached, her mind spun, and she was simply too spent to argue.

What will he dae? How is he going tae stop them, by himself?

 

Chapter Two

Without a word, Rowena scrambled to her horse, who stood trembling by the water’s edge. She led her behind the grassy mound and pressed herself and the horse against the damp earth of the rise. They were concealed just as the first of her step-uncle’s men burst into the clearing. The two armed riders arrived, their faces grim with fury, their horses snorting and stamping.

From her hiding spot, Rowena watched, breathless, as the man pulled an apple from his satchel. He washed it casually in the loch before taking a crisp, loud bite. His nonchalance appeared almost deathly, an unsettling display of control that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Lost yer way, lads?” His voice was deceptively calm.

Their eyes darted nervously over his exposed skin, their apprehension at encountering a lone man by a remote loch made obvious by the subtle looks that passed between them.

Gregor clearly found the man’s blasé attitude maddening. “Mind yer own business, stranger,” he spat. “We are on the hunt for a runaway lass.” He gestured vaguely towards the loch, then around the clearing, clearly uncertain if she had vanished into the water or the woods.

“Ah.” The man nodded and tilted his head. “A runaway, did ye say?” A clear challenge sparked in his glacial blue eyes, an invitation to dismiss or underestimate him if they dared.

Hamish, standing on his horse beside Gregor, shifted tensely. His hand tightened on his sword hilt. “This is none of yer business, ye savage. Be gone before ye find yersel’ in trouble.”

Sharp eyes roamed over the moor, pausing just long enough to rake over her hiding place with unsettling precision. Then the man turned, met her gaze from across the distance, and, bold as anything, winked. A slow, deliberate thing, full of confidence. Rowena’s breath caught. Heat flared beneath her skin and she ducked her head, mortified that he’d caught her watching. By the time she dared look again, he’d already shifted his attention back to her uncle’s men.

“Savage? Now ye’ve hurt me feelings,” he said, pressing a hand over his heart. “And I’m nae the one chasing after a poor lass, am I?” His tone suddenly lost its amused edge. His eyes darkened further, almost black now, though she hadn’t thought it possible. They seemed to absorb the light, stripped of all warmth, all flicker of life.

“As ye can see, there is nay runaway here. Now be on yer way before I make ye.”

“How dare ye speak tae us that way!”

“I see ye’d like me tae repeat meself.” His tone was level as he spoke. “I am nae in the habit of daein’ so, but I am in good spirits and shall make an exception fer ye this morning. I said, nay, runaway lass passed through here. ‘Tis only me and the water. Be. Gone.”

“Ye’re lying!” Gregor snarled, his hand moving to his sword hilt. “This is the only path after the forest breaks. She must have come this way.”

The man’s voice remained steady, almost bored. “I have told ye what I saw. Naethin’ more.”

“Aye, and I say ye’re protecting her.” Hamish’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Tell us where she’s hiding, and we might leave ye breathing.”

“Might?” The man’s tone now carried a subtle edge. “How thoughtful of ye.”

Gregor’s face darkened at the mockery. “Mock me again, and I’ll carve that smirk from yer face. Last chance—where is she?”

“I suppose we have naethin’ more tae discuss, then.” He gestured for them to draw closer. The man’s stance shifted almost imperceptibly. “Come ahead, if ye think ye can manage it.”

Rowena stared, scarcely daring to breathe.

Is the man daft? Standin’ alone and unarmed, challengin’ warriors as though he fears naethin’?

He had no sword, no shield. Nothing but boldness and a strange command about him.

Did he mean tae face them bare-handed? Is he truly so certain he’d prevail?

And yet, for all the madness of it, there was something in the steady way he held himself, that made it impossible not to look away.

Rowena’s breath seized when Gregor drew his blade with a vicious hiss of steel and jabbed it forward. The threatening thrust was aimed directly at the warrior’s chest. But instead of landing on him, the blade struck the apple in his hand with a sickening thwack.

The fruit fell and rolled down the slight incline towards the loch, disappearing with an impossibly loud splash.

It was the only instance that Rowena, watching from her hiding spot, noticed a flicker of annoyance in the man, as though the act was an insult, a waste of his time. The small reaction was more terrifying than any outburst.

Her savior moved like he was one with his sword. The boredom that had formerly tinged his movements vanished, suddenly replaced by a cold focus that alarmed her as much as it thrilled her.

Gregor lunged further, his blade arcing downward in a heavy strike that would have cleaved a lesser man’s skull. But the stranger wasn’t there—he’d shifted left with fluid grace, letting Gregor’s momentum carry him past. In one seamless motion, he caught Gregor’s wrist with his free hand and twisted sharply. The crack of bone was audible even from Rowena’s hiding place. Gregor’s sword fell from nerveless fingers as he screamed.

Before he could recover, the stranger drove his knee into the man’s ribs with savage precision, making Gregor double over, gasping. Then he took the fallen blade and with a quick, surgical thrust it into Gregor’s shoulder, pinning him to the ground.

Saints preserve me, is that precision even human? He hasnae hesitated, nae once. Each blow has landed with cruel exactness, and yet his movements are almost… elegant.

Gregor roared, a guttural sound of pain and shock that sent birds flying out of the trees. Rowena watched him clutch his bleeding shoulder as he writhed on the forest floor.

Serves ye right, ye bastard.

“What kind of devil are ye?” Hamish cried, raising his sword with shaking hands. But fear had made him clumsy, predictable.

The stranger read Hamish’s attack before it began—saw the telltale shift of weight, the slight draw back of his shoulder. He stepped inside Hamish’s guard as the blade swung down, trapping it against his body. He just had the time to remove the blade from Gregor, and with deadly efficiency he moved and found a gap between Hamish’s ribs. Hamish’s eyes widened in shock before he crumpled, unconscious from pain and blood loss.

Both men were neutralized, bleeding profusely but alive. Yet the entire fight had lasted less than thirty seconds. The man’s fighting style was unlike any brawl she had witnessed among clan warriors. He battled with wits, cunning, and unnerving skill. Every movement was deliberate, calculated. He fought like a man who had killed before and would kill again without hesitation.

Rowena felt her core tighten, breathless at the display of his sheer power, the potent force of him.

As he made his way to the mound where she was hiding. She noticed blood at his side, and he stumbled slightly, a clear sign he’d taken a hit.

Before she could decide what to do, or even process the complex emotions swirling within her, the man had approached the mound, his voice dry and tinged with a hint of sardonic amusement. “Seems yer chase has come tae an end, lass. Care tae explain what kind o’ trouble ye’ve dragged me intae?”

“Nay trouble, I swear it. The men came on me suddenly in the woods. When I wouldnae yield tae their advances, they gave chase.” The lie tasted like ash on her tongue, but it was the only way to avoid revealing her real identity.

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Two armed men. Chasing ye like hounds. All fer refusin’ whatever ‘tis they wanted?” His brow lifted in clear disbelief, making her panic. “Seems an awful lot of effort fer a bruised ego.”

Rowena’s heart hammered against her ribs. “It appears they were nae the kind of men who respect being told nay.”

“Aye, but most men dinnae run after a lass for sayin’ nay. And, certainly, those were nae common brigands. They moved like soldiers. Spoke like men takin’ orders.” He leaned back against the mound, arms folding across his chest, his gaze never leaving hers.

His voice dropped low. “So I’ll ask ye again, what are ye really runnin’ from?”

Rowena looked at the man. He was still a stranger​​—a dangerous one, by the look of it. The ground behind them was littered with the groaning remnants of a fight he’d won with the kind of strength she’d be a fool to misjudge for luck.

Two trained warriors, men who had served her father in battles, who had survived countless skirmishes, reduced to bleeding, broken things in mere moments. And he’d done it with such casual efficiency, as if disarming armed men was no more taxing than swatting flies.

Even now, as he stood calmly beside her, she could sense the leashed ruthlessness that thrummed beneath his composed exterior.

This is nae a man who will be easily crossed, nor one whose protection comes without its perils. And I have landed mesel’ in the center of his attention…

“Nae trouble,” she repeated, even though she didn’t fully believe if herself. “I promise ye.”

“Alright then. If it’ll help ye sleep at night, I’ll pretend tae believe ye, lass. Fer now, that is.”

That man had dealt with the two bloodied, unmoving bodies lying on the ground. The sight sent a ripple through her chest. He’d done that for her. Fought in her defense without so much as asking her name.

Rowena forced herself to meet his piercing and unreadable eyes.

He extended his hand toward her without a word and Rowena took it without hesitation, surprising herself. His hand warmly closed around hers, and calloused skin brushed her knuckles, rough like the hand of a warrior, not a courtly man.

As they walked away from her hiding spot, he didn’t let go. His grip remained steady, a reassurance woven into every step, as though he suspected the sight she’d witnessed had unsettled her more deeply than she let on.

Rowena felt out of her depth. “Thank ye,” she said, and dipped a quick, shallow curtsy. Her gaze flickered to the dark stain of blood spreading on his side, and his eyes followed hers.

“’Tis naething,” he said with a wave of his hand. It made her feel almost foolish, standing there so full of worry when he could barely be bothered to acknowledge the wound.

With the immediate danger past, Rowena found herself truly seeing the man for the first time. The steady rise and fall of his chest as his breathing slowly returned to normal. There was something magnetic about his calm confidence, the way he seemed to command the very air around him.

Her pulse quickened, though it wasn’t from terror anymore, but from something altogether more reckless.

“Are ye certain?” The words came out softer than she intended, almost breathless. She took a step closer, ostensibly to examine the wound, but in truth, an urge to be closer to him again took control of her body. The scent of him filled her senses—leather and steel and something uniquely masculine that made her stomach flutter.

His gaze caught hers and held it, and she felt heat creep up her neck. “I have had worse,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a rougher edge now. “Though I confess, having such a bonny lass fret over me makes it worth the trouble.”

Rowena blushed. “Would ye have me tend yer wound? I feel fair awful, knowing ye took it defendin’ me honor.”

A flash of amusement ran through the man’s gaze. “‘Tis but a shallow cut.” He walked to the water, knelt inside it, and splashed some against the wound. Rowena watched with quiet fascination.

He daesnae even flinch!

The man came and stood facing her beside the loch’s edge, where the morning sun had long since given way to the duller light of afternoon, filtering through the canopy above and casting dappled shadows across the forest floor. The water behind them shimmered like glass, disturbed only by the occasional ripple of a drifting breeze.

He had sheathed his sword, yet he remained alert, his stance relaxed but coiled with readiness, as though he could spring into violence again in a heartbeat.

Rowena found herself acutely aware of the space between them. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, yet far enough that their arms didn’t quite touch… though she caught herself wishing they might.

Focus Rowena!

“What is yer name, lass?”

“Why would ye like tae ken?” She crossed her arms, a gesture that was half defensive, half teasing.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I cannae demand the name of the woman I just risked me life fer?”

Rowena almost snorted at that, even though she knew he was right. “Fair enough. I am Rowena… Rowena Fraser.” The false name was a shield between her true self and this stranger. She searched his face for any reaction, a flicker of recognition or suspicion, but she found nothing.

He nodded, then casually bent to retrieve another fallen apple, brushing off the dirt on his tunic before biting into it.

From this close, Rowena couldn’t help but notice how for all the brutality he wielded with ease, not a single scar marred his face.

It makes him all the more unsettling… arresting.

“I’m Constantine MacLean,” he said, his voice a rumble that sent a shiver down her spine.

“A pleasure tae make yer acquaintance,” she said, surprised by how steady her voice sounded.

“A pleasure tae have saved yer life,” he countered, that hint of a smile growing bolder.

She gestured toward the unconscious men and took a few steps toward them, crouching beside the nearest. “I suspect, though, ye enjoyed it more than ye should have.”

“Aye,” he waved a dismissive hand, though he followed a short distance behind her His eyes sparkled with something that might have been amusement. “I would dae it again.”

She cast him a look over her shoulder. “What? Fight two armed men fer a stranger?” She raised an eyebrow at the easy declaration. “That is either very noble or very foolish.”

“Perhaps both.” He tilted his head slightly, still chewing, his gaze shifting from the unconscious men back to her with quiet intensity. “Though I am beginning tae think ye’re worth the risk, Rowena Fraser.”

Her breath caught at the way he said her false name, as if he were tasting it. She rose and dusted her skirts off, then turned her gaze toward the trees, toward where threat might still be lurking for her. That may not have been the last of her step-uncle. Her instinct for self-preservation clashed with her urgent desire for help.

“So ye truly would dae it again?” she asked, lifting her chin with a challenge in her voice. “Put yersel’ in danger fer someone ye dinnae even ken?”

His eyes glinted. “Are ye admitting ye’re dangerous then, lass?”

“I am admitting that helping me might be.” She stepped back toward her horse, brushing her hand along its flank for steadiness, though her gaze didn’t leave his. “Two men with swords hardly seems like ‘nothing’ tae most people.”

“Most people,” he said, closing the distance as he tossed the apple core into the brush, “are nae me.”

“Aye, so I have noticed.”

–>

Best selling books of Kenna

The darkness of the night pressed against the window of Isolde’s bedchamber. The silvery light of the full moon painted the world beyond it in a cold, pale light. Isolde stood at the window, watching. Waiting. The rest of the household would be retiring for the night soon and when they did, she would slip out and see what all the commotion had been about for herself.

Three days prior, her father had returned from battle after claiming victory. Moy Castle had been reveling ever since with feasts and music. The celebration had left her feeling cold. And that was likely because on the day he’d returned, she had seen him marching two men in chains through the gates. She didn’t know who they were at first, but Isolde had listened to the whispers around the castle and had heard their names.

Finlay and Struan Cameron.

At first, she did not recognize the names. Her father never told her anything. But she had been naturally curious—something that had gotten her into trouble more times than she could count—and had gone searching for the answers herself. It hadn’t taken her long to hear the whispers about the Camerons, a clan her father had battled with many times over the years. They had been a constant thorn in his side and he had finally defeated them.

It was no wonder he was celebrating his big victory. But Isolde thought the entire affair was tasteless. Celebrating the deaths of so many, just to claim some land, seemed cruel and offensive. But then, her father would likely say that was because she was soft, that she let her heart dictate too much. It was just one of the many of her shortcomings her father never failed to criticize. She knew he’d longed for a son and was disappointed that he had not had one.

He had always been angry that her mother died giving birth to her, blamed her for it. He treated her like she was unworthy of life and of his name. He never failed to take out his frustrations in life on her. To make her feel small. Useless. He seemed to revel in making her feel like she was a burden and that his life would be infinitely better without her.

Many nights Isolde had lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing for a life beyond the walls of Moy Castle. A life well away from her father, filled with laughter and joy. Filled with love. Isolde fantasized that one day she would have a life of her own choosing, one that would allow her to be and do what she wanted, maybe even with a man beside her who believed in her. A man who spent his time building her up rather than tearing her down.

She dreamed of a life spent with a man of her choosing. A man she loved and who loved her back. She longed for a family she could call her own.

Her dreams were simple. But they seemed forever unattainable to her. That was why she spent most nights crying herself to sleep.

The sound of heavy steps echoed in the corridor outside her bedchamber. The voices of the men were muffled but she could hear them well enough to know the guards were in the middle of a shift change. She sat up in her bed and listened intently. Isolde held her breath until she heard the sound of their marching boots fade into the distance.

She swung her legs over the side of her bed and got to her feet. She had never undressed that night, so she put on a pair of soft-soled slippers, then ran to the door. Opening it carefully, she peered into the corridor. It was empty. Slipping through the open door, she closed it softly behind her before she turned and darted down the hallway.

Moving as swiftly and silently as a shadow, Isolde made her way to the chambermaid’s room. She slipped inside and quickly lit an oil lamp so she could see. She walked to the back of the chamber and reached behind a large wooden stack of shelves. She fumbled around until she found the lever, then gave it a pull. With a soft click, the stack of shelves swung outward, revealing the hidden passageway behind it.

Isolde moved into the passageway quickly and pulled the door closed behind her. Moving swiftly on soft feet, she followed the hidden corridor, passing other hidden doors that branched into other parts of the castle. Years of skulking about in the shadows had allowed her to map out the entire extensive network of secret corridors in her father’s castle.

Listening for the sound of movement in the corridor behind her, Isolde found her way to the room she was looking for. Carefully opening the door, she peered through the crack to ensure the room beyond was empty. It was. Isolde slipped in and closed the door behind her, then moved to the small windows and peered through them to the great dungeon hall below.

She had heard the whispers from the chambermaids. She knew that one of the men who’d been brought in was taken to Cluny House by Laird Dougal MacPherson. The price of that favor was her hand in marriage. Her father was marrying her off to Dougal, a cold and cruel man, yet wealthy and powerful. He was just the sort of man her father would do business and ally himself with.

The mere thought of being forced to marry him turned her stomach, but she pushed it all from her mind. Right now, she simply wanted to get a glimpse of the man who had inspired so much chatter and gossip among the chambermaids. A certain mythos had been built up around this man that piqued her curiosity.

Standing on a small crate, she peered into the chamber below and had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep her gasp burst from her mouth. The guards below fell silent and Isolde had to duck down the windowsill to avoid being seen.

She held her breath and waited until the men started speaking again before she stood once more and got her first real look at the man.

He was a huge man, with broad shoulders and large, defined muscles covering every inch of his body. Stripped to the waist, his hands were bound, connected to a chain that hung from the ceiling. His face, which she could see was handsome despite his state, was bloody and swollen, dark purple and black bruises marring his flesh. It looked like her father’s guards had spent the last three days beating him.

His entire beautiful body was a shrine to pain, past and present. A network of scars, more extensive than her father’s hidden passageways, crisscrossed his body. He was obviously a warrior. One who’d seen many battles in his time.

“Laird Mackintosh says we’re nae tae kill this one,” she heard one of the men say.

“Daesnae mean we cannae have some fun with him though, eh?” said the other.

She watched as the men took turns driving their fists into his body, each impact making a wet, fleshy sound. The prisoner grunted with every blow, but he did not speak. Instead, he kept his head held high, his jaw clenched, determined not to show weakness in front of them. And although she winced and grimaced with every blow, she could tell he was a proud man. A man who would show them no fear. A man who would simply endure.

Isolde felt her respect for the man growing. She wished she could be more like him.

Isolde stuffed down the pity that flashed through her heart for him. He did not deserve it. She gritted her teeth and watched in awe as her father’s guards beat on him. The man though, endured it all in silence. He stood proud, barely flinching as he took punch after punch. He simply bore it with a dark, grim grace that captivated Isolde.

Finally, the man grimaced then spat a thick red glob onto the stone floor at the feet of his attackers. He narrowed his eyes and glared at them with pure malice on his face. As she watched him, as she studied his eyes, Isolde saw the light of grim determination shining bright in him. She knew that he would not be broken. Would not be cowed. It was in that moment she knew the man bound and shackled in her father’s dungeon would escape. She wasn’t sure how, but she knew it as sure as she knew her own name.

And as that thought settled into Isolde’s mind, she knew she would be able to use the confusion that would follow his escape to make her own…

 

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