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Chapter One

Glenelg, Scotland

April 1721

Maureen MacDonald sat very still on the hard wooden bench, gazing forlornly at the dark shape of Skye visible from the inn’s narrow window

Beyond the wavering glass lay the dark, restless Sound of Sleat, separating her from her beloved island. The Cuillins, jagged and black against a low, bruised sky were so blessedly familiar, yet impossibly far away.

Her head swam. The world tilted in slow, treacherous circles. The crossing had been hellish––the wind shrieking like an Irish banshee, waves slamming the hull of her brother’s brave little birlinn, and torrents of rain from which there had been no escape.

She had grown up on boats, had laughed at storms and salt spray as a child, but today… was different. Instead of blessing her journey, the sea rose up in tortuous waves, leaving her bent over the gunwale, violently sick, her body betraying her for the first ever time in memory.

But then, ever since her brother Kenneth had delivered the news that she was to be sent away to wed her clan’s enemy, her stomach had been roiling with nausea.

Even there, on land at last, her limbs felt hollow and weak, her head dizzy. Lifting her chin, she fought to keep her shoulders straight. Her brother’s men, commanded by his trusted captain, burly red-bearded Alasdair MacDonald, hovered nearby, watching her with barely concealed concern. She forced herself to offer a faint smile whenever he glanced in her direction.

“I’m quite well, Captain,” she murmured for the third time, though the words tasted false. “Truly.”

Alasdair did not look convinced, but he was kind enough not to argue.

She could scarcely believe she had endured that crossing to get there, to the mainland, to marry a MacLeay.

Her mouth tightened. Clan MacLeay. The enemies her brother had cursed for years, speaking the name in low, bitter voices by hearth, fire, and lamplight. And yet there she was, bound by duty and the orders of a king, a mere pawn in a royal chess game, wrapped in silk and furs and charged with obedience to King George’s will.

She understood the reason for the King’s command. But her sacrifice to save her clan’s lands did not make the thought of her impending nuptials to a man she’d never seen sit any easier in her chest.

She sighed. Perhaps the following day the clouds would settle and her little party would set out again. However, she was in no haste to meet the man she was forced to wed. A ripple of unease coursed through her at the thought of the unknown man.

Her night at the inn was a reprieve of sorts. One last night of freedom, although the low, sturdy building crouched at the edge of the shore, was a far cry from the comforts she was used to.

She shifted her gaze from the distant reminders of home and looked around. The common room was crowded with local folk and travelers alike, all seeking warmth and ale and shelter from the storm.

A maid had placed food before her on the table––a small platter of bannocks and butter, a bowl of broth steaming faintly––but Maureen could not bring herself to eat. She lifted a cup of ale instead, her fingers trembling despite her effort to still them, and sipped slowly, willing her stomach to settle.

From beneath her lashes, she studied the room.

Firelight played across the walls, illuminating fresh faced youngsters along with grey-hairs, lads and lasses, bonnets, cloaks and flushed cheeks. There was an enticing air of merriment in the room. Laughter rose and fell, along with the rumble of conversation.

And then her gaze lit upon one figure that stood out from all the others, courting her eyes.

A man.

He stood near the hearth, tall and broad-shouldered, his posture loose and supremely confident, as though he belonged wherever he chose to stand. She glanced at his kilt, but did not recognize his plaid. Dark hair brushed the collar of his black woolen jacket, his face was open, his features elegant and striking, his smile easy and unguarded. He laughed, head tipped back slightly, and the sound of his mirth shifted something inside her. He sounded carefree, as if nothing could concern him, while she was weighted with woes.

Some women clustered about him. To Maureen’s unforgiving eye, they appeared to be naught but doxies. Beautiful, indeed, but bold and indiscreet. One of them, fair-haired, without a cap but with curls piled high on her dainty head, her ribboned gown lacking a fichu to conceal her bosom, was leaning forward, gazing up at him in a manner modesty should forbid. Another, similarly clad, rested her hand boldly on his arm.

Maureen looked on with disgust. The man did not discourage them. In fact, he returned the touches easily enough – his fingers brushing a cheek here, a knuckle tracing along a hand there.

Maureen’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch, not entirely due to the lingering seasickness.

She felt a flicker of disbelief – and then, unbidden, a hot wash of embarrassment. Was this how mainland folk behaved? So openly? So shamelessly? She looked away, heat creeping up her neck, her gaze dropping to the scarred surface of the table.

And then, she felt an unmistakable prickle between her shoulder blades.

She glanced up, despite herself.

The man was looking directly at her.

His lips were curled in a half-smile as if, despite thoroughly enjoying the women’s interest, it was her attention he sought as he seemed to dare her to return his gaze. The way he looked her up and down was not quite a leer, but held appreciation and interest with a companionable intent, as if he was sharing a private joke with her.

Maureen’s breath caught, and she turned her head away, fixing her attention on a crack in the table, as if it were the most fascinating thing she had ever seen.

She felt her cheeks flush with heat.

Footsteps approached. They paused beside her.

“Well,” a deep voice said lightly, from somewhere close beside her, “I cannae help but notice ye look as though ye might topple over if the bench moves even a wee bit.”

She stiffened.

Before he could say anything further, she lifted her head and met his gaze with forced composure, ignoring the sudden stammering of her heart.

“I’ve nay interest in conversation…” She kept her voice pleasantly polite, though there was a sharp edge hiding beneath her tone, “…with a man who appears tae belong tae half the lasses in this room.”

For a heartbeat she expected him to glare at her, offended. Even make her a muttered apology.

Instead, his grin widened.

“Is that so?” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “And here I was hoping ye might be grateful fer a distraction from yer woes.”

Without waiting for her invitation or permission, he pulled out the bench beside her and sat.

Maureen stared at him, startled by his unexpected move. From the corner of her eye, she saw Alasdair at the nearby table get to his feet, frowning.

She shook her head and he returned to his seat, his gaze fixed on her with concern. There was no need for her guards, she was quite capable of managing the engaging stranger by herself.

“Ye are exceedingly bold,” she remarked to the man. She had no intention of succumbing to his charm.

“Aye,” he agreed cheerfully, raising a hand and pushing his hair from his collar.

Oh my. He is far too handsome.

“So I’ve been told.”

She huffed a breath, torn between irritation and reluctant amusement. “And ye’ve nay care tae intrude on a lady enjoying solitude?”

He looked a tiny bit chastened. “Ye’ve only tae tell me I am unwelcome and I shall leave ye tae yer perfect solitude.” He grinned again, tilting his head. He was daring her to tell him to begone.

“I am still somewhat unwell after the voyage,” she added, gesturing faintly to herself. “If ye’re intent on flirting, I suggest ye find a lass this evening who is far sturdier than meself.” She offered a wry grin.

He studied her, his expression shifting, sharpening with interest. “That pallor,” he nodded as if assessing her, “and the way ye’re gripping the bench as if it might attempt tae flee. Seasickness ye say?”

She pressed her lips together. “The crossing from Skye was… unpleasant.”

Chuckling softly, he shook his head. “Saints preserve us. A lass raised on Skye, undone by a wee touch of bad weather.”

She shot him a look. “It was nae a wee bit of weather.”

“Nay,” he conceded, signaling a serving wench with a flick of his fingers. “It was foul. A dreadful storm, indeed.”

“Aye sir,” the maid bobbed a curtsy.

“Bring something––a tisane tae settle the stomach, perhaps ginger, or mint. The lady is in need of it.”

Maureen huffed. “I need nae—”

“Humor this effort of mine tae tend tae a bonnie lass.”

The maid hurried off, and he leaned back, his eyes sparkling. “I would like tae ken yer name.” He lifted his cup of ale in a half salute. “I reckon ye have a pretty name. Like a flower. Let me guess it.”

Maureen couldn’t help but grin as he studied her with his clear blue eyes.

“With that chestnut hair and the sparkle of emeralds in yer eyes, perhaps ‘tis nae a flower ye are named for, but a precious gem.”

“Pshaw.” Maureen laughed at his flirting. “Ye’re one fer foolish words, lad. I’ll nae tell ye me name. It is fer ye tae guess.”

Her stomach was busy tying itself in knots, but there was no hint of the lingering nausea. It was something else altogether.

“Hm. As ye’ve nae told me, I’ll name ye fer yer home, the bonnie island of mist – Eilean a’ Cheò. The Isle of Skye. I shall call ye Eilean.” He studied her again.

Before she could respond, before she could decide whether to stay to hear more of his nonsense or flee someplace where her heartbeat could return tae normal, he leaned closer.

“Are ye certain, Eilean…” His tone was playful and he kept his voice low so that she had little choice but to lean slightly toward him to catch his words. “…that there is naught else I might dae tae bring a smile tae those bonnie lips and return some color tae those pale cheeks. Mayhap I could please ye in some way…?

His words hung in the air between them.

Maureen’s breath hitched in her throat. Her face burned hot. Although she laughed and shook her head, his teasing words had touched something inside she’d been unaware of until that moment. Something that coiled beneath her heart, drawing her unwittingly to him.

“I cannae listen tae another word of such foolishness.” She gulped in a breath and thrust her hands into her muff. He was altogether, much too forward.

“I must seek the innkeeper,” she announced abruptly, mustering what little dignity she could fathom.

She should not be listening to that man and admiring his wickedly handsome ways. She rose hastily but had barely taken three steps when the convivial mood of the tavern was suddenly shattered, freezing her where she stood.

The main door was kicked open with a thunderous crash. Cold air and driving rain tore into the room, snuffing candles and scattering sparks from the hearth. Several masked men stormed in, swords drawn, their rough voices raised in harsh shouts.

Benches violently scraped the stone floor as patrons scrambled tae flee from the intruders. The laughter which had filled the air only moments before was replaced by terrified screams.

A huge brute of a man slammed his blade into a table, splintering the timber and commanding silence.

Maureen stood motionless, heart hammering against her ribs, scarcely able to believe the scene unfolding before her. The tang of fear was unmistakable on her tongue as chaos erupted around her. The change came so swiftly it was as if the air itself had shattered.

The raiders moved with brutal coordination. This was not the drunken chaos of common thieves but men accustomed to using intimidation and fear to do their worst. Two of them slammed the door shut and planted themselves there, blades bared, preventing any escape, while the others fanned out across the common room. Tables were overturned with rude kicks, tankards sent skidding across the rush-strewn floor. Ale and carafes of red wine splattered against the walls.

Within the space of mere seconds, the cowering crowd was silent, save for muffled curses and sobs.

The same giant who had slammed his blade into the table stood, legs akimbo at the center of the floor. “Coin! Weapons! Throw them on the table. Now.”

His shout cracked like a whip.

The innkeeper was hauled forward by the collar, his face as grey as ash.

“The key tae yer strong box. Now.”

One of the ruffians pressed a sharp blade beneath the terrified man’s chin, whose hands were shaking badly as he struggled to locate a key among those dangling from his belt.

A well-dressed man with the appearance of a wealthy merchant protested loudly. He raised his voice once only before the flat of a blade struck his cheek with a sound that turned Maureen’s blood to ice where she stood.

The raiders, swords drawn, prowled among the tavern’s guests. Here and there a woman sobbed or squealed softly. Purses thudded to the floor. Bags were kicked aside. People crouched, hands over their heads, their mouths moving in what Maureen took to be silent prayer.

Her guards reacted immediately, their warrior’s instinct plunging them into motion, but she had moved away from their reach when she had gotten up. One of them tried for her arm, fingers brushing her sleeve, and the world tilted violently. The lingering sickness from the crossing surged, her vision blurring as the room spun, causing her tae stagger.

That was all it took.

Chapter Two

Maureen’s erratic movement caught the attention of one of the raiders, and his grin split wide as his gaze fell on her. He turned from a sobbing couple and came for her with lazy confidence, reaching out as though she were no more than yet another loose purse on a table.

His hand closed on her cloak.

Maureen gasped and jerked back, the wool tearing beneath his grip. Her foot slid on spilled ale and for a heartbeat she thought she would fall at his feet. Terror and rage flared sharp and hot, cutting through the fog in her head.

“Let go of me!” she cried, striking at his arm with all the strength she had.

He laughed – a hoarse, crude sound – and turned her toward him, tightening his hold. “Look what I’ve found,” he called to his fellows. “A wee prize fer some fun on the road.”

Her guards surged forward then, their blades drawn, shouting her name, steel flashing–– but the raider yanked her toward him, wrenching her shoulder with his force.

The other bandits, their attention distracted by the movement near the kitchen, left their thievery for a moment and rushed to the aid of their comrade, piling onto her guards, engaging them in a fierce fight.

Although her men were sorely outnumbered, they were seasoned warriors, trained and battle-hardened. She glimpsed Alasdair’s face in the throng as her men fought hard, driving the raiders back.

The room roared around her, sound collapsing into a rush of blood in her ears.

And then, suddenly, impossibly—

The stranger was beside her.

It seemed only moments since she had first glimpsed him across the room, relaxed and careless. Now his tall form was between her and her captor, his body a solid wall. There was no warning, no hesitation. His fist drove into the man’s jaw with a sickening crack, followed by the brutal efficiency of a blade hilt to the temple.

Blood gushing, the raider crumpled to the floor without a sound.

The stranger seized Maureen by the arm and hauled her back, not roughly but with undeniable force, shoving her toward the wall and placing himself squarely in front of her. His stance changed utterly – he squared his shoulders, his feet planted solid and unwavering, his blue eyes cold and assessing. The easy charm was gone, replaced by a warrior’s lethal ferocity.

“Stay there,” he bellowed, not looking back.

Maureen obeyed, huddling behind him against the wall, her breath coming in short, unsteady gasps. Her heart was hammering so hard she feared it would tear free of her ribs. Yet beneath the fear, against all sense, something else flared. A strange certainty that this man was placing his own life at risk without a second thought. The realization of his strength, of his presence shielding her without question lent her a measure of courage.

Another man materialized from the melee, taking his place beside her protector. An order cut through the chaos, crisp and commanding.

“Joseph. Tae me left. Now.”

Joseph was already there, following the command without question, his blade drawn, his eyes hard. He took the man’s flank with the practiced ease of a lieutenant. Together with her guards, they pushed forward, forcing the raiders back and away from the huddled patrons.

Steel rang on steel. A man fell. A bench splintered. Someone screamed in pain.

They fought with ruthless precision, with no wasted movement, no impetuous fury, only control. Her protector in the lead, the men drove the attackers away from the center of the room, turning the tide inch by brutal inch. Maureen watched from her vantage point by the wall, her nails digging into her palms as she tracked every movement, scarcely able to draw breath.

Then she saw it.

One of the raiders slipped around the edge of the fight, his blade raised high behind Alasdair’s back ready to strike yet unnoticed in the press of fighting.

“Nae!” she screamed in sudden fury.

Unthinking she hurled herself forward, her hand closing around a heavy bottle from the table in front of her.

As the raider’s sword began to fall, she leapt forward and swung the bottle, emboldened by a strength born of rage and fear.

The bottle shattered against the man’s skull. Glass exploded. He went down in a heap, senseless before he hit the floor.

There was a moment’s silence as if all those in the inn held their breath for a heartbeat.

The stranger who’d shielded her half-turned at once, and for a fleeting moment their eyes met across the chaos. He nodded almost imperceptibly and then, to her astonishment his lips quirked in a half-grin, signaling his approval of her furious impulse.

Trembling, Maureen leaned against a nearby table, part of the broken bottle still in her hand, her heart pounding wildly. For the first time since setting foot on the mainland, it dawned on her that whatever fate awaited her here, it might not be as simple as she’d once imagined it would be.

“Fall back!”

One of the raiders bellowed the words from near the hearth but his voice was all but drowned by shouts and cries and the clash of steel against steel. But his call for retreat came too late. By then the skirmish had turned against the raiders.

A blast of rain and freezing wind swept into the inn as the two men who were guarding the door flung it open and made a desperate break to escape, their boots slipping on the blood and ale-slick floor. One went down under a MacDonald blade before he reached the threshold. The other vanished into the storm.

The rest fared no better.

Alasdair’s men pressed forward, their blades flashing. And all the while the stranger fought relentlessly, showing no mercy to any misguided raider who attempted to bring him down – striking, lunging, parrying without turning a hair, as if he knew naught but battle.

Within moments the raid was decisively over and the raiders were routed, leaving a bloody mess and the cries of wounded and dying men.

The surviving attackers fled into the darkness, leaving behind a pile of broken furniture, and a group of horrified bystanders.

Maureen’s ears were ringing as she looked around. Smoke from the hearth curled sluggishly toward the rafters. Someone sobbed. Someone else retched and vomited. The innkeeper sank to his knees beside his overturned strongbox, staring blankly at the scattered coins as though endeavoring to convince himself they were real.

Now that the immediate danger had passed, the man Maureen had come to think of as her protector, did not hesitate.

He stepped forward, his calm voice carrying throughout the room without effort. “Bar the door. Now.”

Two men obeyed instantly, dragging the heavy beam into place. The man crossed the room in long strides, surveying the wounded with a practiced eye.

“Joseph, see tae him.” He pointed to one of Alasdair’s men who had been dealt a deep blow to his shoulder. “He’s nae dead, but he’ll bleed out if that cut isnae seen tae without delay.

“Ye there.” He turned to another of her men, “Take two of yer company and watch the road. If any of them circle back, I want warning.”

Orders flowed from him as naturally as breath. No one questioned him. No one hesitated.

It was… strange.

Who is he?

Maureen watched, her pulse still racing, marveling at the transformation of the man she’d initially dismissed as a rake – flirtatious, unconcerned. When he’d approached her, she’d thought him handsome to be sure, but not to be taken too seriously. She’d dismissed him as a rake, at home in the comforts of a parlor or ballroom. Now she saw him as a leader. A fearsome warrior who would brook no trouble or any defiance of his commands.

The innkeeper deferred to him without protest. Even Alasdair and his band of soldiers accepted his command without question, looking to him before acting. Strangers straightened when he spoke, recognizing his authority. He did not shout. He did not threaten. He simply was there––a composed, controlled, presence, absolutely in command.

Joseph remained at his shoulder, blade lowered but poised and ready should his leader demand his sword.

“The raiders appear tae have fled, me laird,” he murmured.

His leader nodded solemnly. “Good.”

He turned back to her, his gaze finding hers where she stood, half hidden, beside the wall.

He hastened to her side, his dark brows drawn together in concern. “Are ye hurt?” he asked softly.

She shook her head, though her hands still trembled. “Nay. I… I…dinnae believe I am harmed.” She managed a tentative smile.

He looked her over carefully, not touching her, his eyes flicking to the torn edge of her cloak, the faint smear of blood on her sleeve that was not her own. Only when he seemed satisfied did he incline his head.

“Are ye certain lass? Ye’ve lost all color in that bonnie face of yers.”

Despite herself, she felt a tug on her heart as he spoke.

Yet there was something different now in the way he addressed her. The teasing and flirting were nowhere to be found, replaced by a measured courtesy and respect that touched far more than his easy charm ever had.

The laird, for she had heard him called that, took remnants of the bottle she’d been clutching gently from her hand, his fingers closing around the glass with quiet assurance. “I saw ye act tae fell the lad who threatened yer guard,” he added quietly, his eyes meeting hers. “That was a brave thing ye did.”

There was no censure in his tone, no hint that her actions had been unseemly – only a calm assessment, as though courage were a simple fact rather than something remarkable.

Her cheeks warmed under his praise, though she was not sure why it meant so much. “I could nae stand back and see him strike down Captain Alasdair,” she said simply.

A corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. “Few would have had the courage tae step forward as ye did.” The smile appeared. “Ye’re a brave lass as well as a bonnie one, Eilean.”

Maureen swallowed, her pulse still hammering. “I did not think,” she admitted. “I only… reacted.”

“Aye,” he said. “That is often the truest instinct.”

She wavered slightly, and his breath caught.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

She did.

“D’ye feel dizzy?”

“Some,” she answered. “But I am standing.”

He studied her eyes, then nodded. His fingers brushed the darkening bruise peeking out from beneath her sleeve. “This will ache come morning.”

“And this…” she glanced at the small cut along her palm. “’Tis naught.”

He gently took her hand, studying it for a brief moment before nodding, a tiny grin quirking his lips. “Luck was with ye, lass. ‘Tis barely a scratch.”

He stepped back then, his smile fading, control returning to him as swiftly as it had left. The moment was over before she understood it––precise, restrained, and unembellished.

And yet, he had looked at her and asked, as if he truly cared, “are ye unharmed”?

Behind him, Joseph cleared his throat. “They were Lachlan Matheson’s men, me laird,” he said grimly. “I’ve nay doubt of it.”

Her protector’s expression hardened. “Aye. Testing the ground.”

Maureen’s heart gave a strange, sharp lurch. “Matheson?” she asked.

The man turned back to her, studying her face as though weighing whether to say more or respond to her question.

“Lachlan Matheson,” he said at last. “An old enemy. He’s been circling like a crow since me braither Aidan MacLeay’s death, pushing us hard, judging what he might take while the clan remains unsettled. Seeking weaknesses in our defenses.”

The name MacLeay hit her ears with quiet force.

Understanding slid into place and sudden clarity caused her to catch her breath.

His unthinking leadership. The men’s deference. The way Joseph obeyed his orders without question, addressing him as laird. The easy confidence with which he had stepped into violence and bent it to his will.

Maureen stared at him, only now truly seeing him, her earlier irritation and disbelief rearranging themselves into something altogether different.

“Ye are…” Her voice faltered as she met his gaze, then steadied as she hauled in a deep breath and exhaled. “…Laird Samuel MacLeay.”

He inclined his head. “At yer service, me lady.”

All at once the world narrowed, so that all she could hear or see was the man standing before her.

Her future – the one she had crossed the sea to meet in sickness and dread – stood tall before her, blood on his knuckles, authority in his bearing, his icy-blue eyes fixed steadily on hers.

Maureen’s heart jolted alarmingly and she swallowed a sudden boulder in her throat, her hands damp inside her fur.

So, this is Samuel, the new laird of Clan MacLeay. The man tae whom King George has commanded I shall be given in marriage.

She allowed the realization to thunder through her veins, robbing her of breath, causing her heart to stutter in disbelief.

For a moment the world shifted before settling quietly back into place.

She caught her breath, poised to speak, to inform this man of her identity – that she was the woman who King George had designated as his bride. But as she stood before him, the words on the tip of her tongue, one of the men, a merchant she guessed by his clothing, drew Samuel’s attention.

The Laird Samuel MacLeay––she let his name form slowly in her mind––turned away before she could speak.

“Pardon me,” he said softly, “it seems I am wanted elsewhere.” He strode across tae the man who was seated beside a sobbing woman.

Maureen laid a hand against the wall, steadying herself as she fought to remain upright. Her legs had turned to jelly beneath her skirts, weak and untrustworthy, and she leaned into the cool stone as though it alone might keep her from collapsing.

Her mind reeled––not only from the shock of all that had unfolded before her eyes, the violence and the horror of it––but from the staggering realization that the man with whom she had so freely exchanged remarks, sharp words and guarded glances, was the very man to whom she was betrothed. The very man she would be required to marry under the King’s command.

She watched him now as he moved through the crowded inn, purposeful and composed amid the chaos. He assisted those injured or dazed, issuing quiet but firm orders tae the men who seemed capable of taking stock of what had occurred. Her own guards, under Alistair’s command, followed the lead with disciplined efficiency, tending wounds and restoring order as best they could. The air was thick with the smell of spilled ale, sweat, and blood, and the murmur of shaken voices pressed in on her from all sides.

Maureen drew in a deep breath, forcing herself to gather her wits. Whatever came next, she would meet it standing.

It was then that Alasdair appeared at her side.

“Lady Maureen, ye’re pale,” he said gently. “I regret that ye’ve endured such a fearful turn of events.”

She lifted a hand, steady but restrained. “I thank ye – and yer men – me Captain, fer all yer bravery in protecting us all.”

He bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “It is I who must thank ye, me lady. I ken from Laird MacLeay that it was yer brave action that saved me from the ruffian’s blade.”

A small, weary smile touched her lips. “Then mayhap we are equal in each other’s defense.”

“May I escort ye tae yer chamber?” Concern was plain in his voice.

She shook her head. “I am well enough, dinnae trouble yerself. Ye must see tae yer men and those who were wounded. I shall be fine.”

“Lady Maureen,” he protested, “I…”

But at that very moment, Samuel reappeared at Alistair’s side.

“Lady Maureen… MacDonald?” His gaze flicked between them.

“Aye,” she replied before Alistair could speak. “And I am nae, after all, yer Eilean, Laird Samuel. I am Lady Maureen MacDonald.”

She saw his smile falter for the briefest instant as the truth settled upon him. Then he placed a hand upon Alistair’s shoulder.

“Captain, I thank ye fer yer assistance,” Samuel said evenly. “May I speak alone with Lady Maureen?”

Alistair looked up at him, his expression guarded. It was plain that he felt the weight of his duty keenly – that he meant to protect her, whatever the cost.

“I truly thank ye fer yer guardianship of me lady,” Samuel continued, his voice firm but measured. “However, as me betrothed, I believe it is me responsibility tae see tae her care from this moment forward. Please, tend tae yer men. I shall see tae the lady’s comfort.”

Alistair did not move at once. Instead, he turned to Maureen. “Are ye in agreement with this, Lady Maureen?”

She gave a brief nod, still perplexed by how swiftly her world had shifted. “Aye. It is fine. Ye have men who depend upon ye Alistair, and I believe that Laird Samuel MacLeay will dae his duty and attend tae me well-being.”

Alistair bowed. “Certainly, me lady. If that is yer wish, I shall obey.”

He turned back to Samuel, his brow still furrowed. “I place the lady’s safety and welfare in yer hands, Laird MacLeay. I trust that ye will guard her with even greater resolve and heart than I might meself.”

With that, he snapped his boots together, turned sharply, and strode away to where his men had gathered, kneeling beside one of their own who lay wounded upon the floor.

Maureen watched Alasdair walk away, the weight of all that remained pressing down upon her chest, and wondered – not for the first time that night – how much more her heart would be asked to bear?

She drew a careful breath, steadying herself as the room seemed tae tilt once more. She lifted her chin.

“I thank ye fer yer courtesy, Laird MacLeay.”

Samuel met her gaze. “Courtesy has naught tae dae with it.”

She blinked. “Then what daes?”

“Duty,” he said without hesitation. “And truth.”

He paused, then added, more quietly, “Ye are me betrothed. That binds me tae ye with more than words. I am sworn tae see that nay harm comes tae ye – by me hand, or any other.”

The weight of that settled heavily between them.

She nodded once. “Then I will accept yer aid.”

He extended his arm. “May I assist ye tae yer chamber?”

“Aye,” she said.

She placed her hand upon his arm, startled by the solid warmth beneath her fingers. He adjusted instantly, shortening his stride to match hers as he guided her towards the stairs. Voices rose behind them – men calling for him, hands reaching – but he did not turn.

“Laird MacLeay,” someone called. “We need—”

“Nae now,” Samuel said sharply. He glanced down at Maureen. “Ye are first.”

She said nothing, but her grip tightened ever so slightly.

At the top of the stairs she faltered, her foot slipping. His hand closed at her waist without ceremony, steady and unyielding.

“I have ye,” he said.

“I ken that,” she replied, her voice quieter than before.

He did not release her at once and her already ragged heart gave an unwonted jolt at his touch.

The chamber he guided her to was small but clean, the narrow window framing the dark sweep of the shore. Once inside, he led her across to the bed.

“Sit.”

She obeyed, her breathing shallow as she pressed her palms to the mattress.

“I am nae made of glass,” she said faintly.

“Nay,” he replied, lifting the ewer from the small washstand by the bed. “But even steel must cool after the fire.”

He soaked a linen cloth and stepped close. When he pressed it to her face, she startled.

“I can manage—”

“Be still,” he said, not unkindly.

She fell silent.

The cloth was cool and his touch was restrained, but the nearness of him made her acutely aware of every breath he took. He worked carefully, lifting the cloth, replacing it, his focus wholly on her.

“Drink.” He offered her a cup. “Slowly.”

As she reached for it, their fingers brushed and a frisson of strange heat coursed through her.

“Was that an order?” she murmured.

“Nay,” he said. “A suggestion.”

She drank slowly, as he’d instructed. When her hand trembled, his closed around the cup, steadying it without comment.

She exhaled. “Ye are accustomed tae command.”

“And ye,” he replied, “are accustomed tae standing.”

Her gaze lifted sharply to meet his.

He stepped back, as though aware he had said more than he’d intended. “Now it would be wise fer ye tae rest. Tomorrow ye’ll ride beside me.” he said. “Dinnae fash lass, I will remain nearby.”

She shook her head. “Ye need nae—”

“I dae,” he interrupted. Then, more quietly, “Rest, Lady Maureen.”

He turned and walked with soft steps from the room.

Alone, at last, she allowed herself to flop onto the pillow. The events of the day came crashing in and she closed her eyes. It already seemed years since that morning when she’d embarked from the landing at Duntulm and bade farewell to her dear brother Kenneth and her sister-in-law Selene.

If she had known what the day had in store would she have boarded the birlinn? But, regardless of what had already come tae pass, she felt a tremor of anticipation about what was to come on the morrow.

She smiled to herself as she drifted into sleep.

Sometime in the night she wakened and shrugged out of her clothes, donning her nightshift before returning to bed. There was movement beyond the door – the faint shift of boots, the low murmur of voices. Despite the disturbance, she was not afraid. She did not rise. She did not call out.

She simply lay there, listening, knowing without being told he was there.

When she finally slept, she dreamed of a tall figure standing before a glowing fireplace, the word “Eilean” on his lips.

Best selling books of Kenna

September 1313, Castle Stornoway, Isle of Lewis and Harris, the Scottish Highlands

Laird Darragh MacLeod and his trusted right hand, his brother Laurence, were seated by the blazing hearth in Darragh’s study, leaning forward in their seats, both nursing drams of whisky, talking in low voices.

The two brothers were very alike in looks, both tall, broad shouldered, with long dark hair, and the well-honed physiques of hardened warriors. Both had the same dark gray eyes the color of winter seas and storm clouds. But Darragh was the more dangerous-looking and imposing of the two, due to his being slightly taller that Laurence, broader in the chest, and generally larger in his well-muscled bulk. Besides his size and fearsome appearance, he exuded a natural authority without visible effort, having been raised to rule. And to fight.

“This is bloody serious, Laurence,” he was saying, his startlingly handsome features, carved into harsh planes by years of battle and responsibility, taking on a grim cast in the flickering glow of candlelight. The reflected flames of the fire danced in his dark eyes, adding a devilish cast to his already frightening appearance.

“That bastard Munro’s as crafty as a den of foxes,” he growled. “I had a suspicion this was on the cards sooner or later. I mean, he wants those overland trade routes across MacKenzie’s lands as much as I dae, fer all the gold and influence they can bring him, and because he’ll dae anythin’ tae ruin me.”

“Aye, he’s crafty enough tae have gotten in first and offered fer the MacKenzie’s lassie’s hand. If he daes wed her, he’ll have those trade routes all sewn up,” Laurence pointed out mercilessly.

Darragh scowled at his brother but knew he was right, though it was painful to admit. “Tell me somethin’ I dinnae ken.”

He took a swig of whisky and let the burn go down. “He’s been a thorn in me side fer years, sowin’ unrest in our territory and underminin’ our alliances, tryin’ tae blacken me reputation every chance he gets, tellin’ all sorts of filthy lies about me.

“He’s slowly chippin’ away at me power, and ’tis slowly poisonin’ our influence as well as seriously affectin’ our income.” As he spoke, his hatred for the man burned hot within his belly.

“Aye, he’s a devil all right,” Laurence agreed, knowing it all too well. “But he’s nay fool either. He’s never openly moved against us because he kens that a direct attack would earn ye the Crown’s protection.”

“And he kens I cannae retaliate openly without handin’ him the king’s favor. But if I dinnae stop this marriage, he’ll poison the well fer me with Ewan MacKenzie as well and make sure Ewan never grants us an alliance. We’ll never be able tae trade across his lands, and I cannae afford tae lose that chance. The future cost fer the clan will be too great.”

Laurence sipped his whisky thoughtfully for a moment, then asked, “Are ye sure the betrothal is official? I mean, has it been announced publicly yet?”

Darragh shook his head. “From what I’ve heard ’tis official, but I cannae be sure. It’ll be a stroke of luck if it has nae gone that far yet. But one thing’s certain, if we’re ever tae get access tae MacKenzie’s trade routes, then the promise or the betrothal or whatever it is must be undone fer the sake of the clan.”

“Have ye any ideas about how tae go about that? I mean, we cannae very well march up tae Ewan MacKenzie’s keep at Kintail and ask him about it,” Laurence said.

“Aye, as it happens, I have. Me source said that Laird Rory MacCallum is throwin’ a ball in a few days’ time at Dunollie keep, and guess who’s invited.”

“Let me guess. Elliot Munro and Ewan MacKenzie’s sister. Nay doubt accompanied by at least one if her braithers.”

“Spot on, man.” Darragh took long sip of whisky and savored it, letting it calm his whirring mind. “And I’m guessin’ that if the betrothal isnae official yet, the ball is where Munro intends tae make it publicly known that the lass is tae be his wife.”

“That makes sense,” his brother said with a nod.

“That’s why ye and me are gonna attend said ball.”

Laurence’s dark brows rose. “Are we now? And what d’ye intend tae dae at this ball? Throw the lass over yer shoulder and make off with her under Munro’s nose? Now, that would start a war, and we’d be on the loosin’ side with both Munro’s and MacKenzies against us.”

“Thank ye again, Braither, fer statin’ the bloody obvious. Nay. I dinnae ken what I’m gonnae dae yet. I’ll have tae play it by ear. I need tae find out the truth of the match. Is the betrothal official or nae. If it is, then is the lass marryin’ him out of duty tae her clan… or love?”

Laurence almost spat out his mouthful of whisky. “Love? What sort of a woman could love that slimy bastard? It hastae be duty. And anyway, what the hell difference daes that make in the grand scheme of things?”

Darragh lifted his gaze from his glass. “Because if ’tis a love match, then I’m nae sure I wantae ruin the lassie’s life in order tae get what I want.”

“And if she’s marryin’ him fer duty?”

“In that case, in me book, she’s still free and up fer grabs. And I reckon, with the right persuasion, Ewan would give her tae me rather than Munro.”

Laurence sat back and stared at his brother in frank amazement. “What? D’ye mean tae marry the lassie yersel’? After ye’ve spent years avoidin’ gettin’ shackled? I mean, if ye’d changed yer mind about takin’ a wife, then why did ye nae offer fer the MacKenzie lass yersel’?”

Darragh shrugged irritably. “I dinnae want tae marry, I never want tae get tied down by a wife, ye ken that well. But the time has come when, much as I hate tae say it, I have tae accept that too much is at stake fer the clan if I dinnae dae me duty and give up me freedom.”

“Christ, I never thought I’d hear ye say that, Braither. Ye’ve floored me. I think I need another dram.” Laurence leaned forward and refilled his glass from the flask on the table between them.

He offered the flask to Darragh. “Aye, me too,” he said, promptly swallowing the remaining whisky in his glass, then holding it out to be replenished.

The thought of giving up his bachelor freedoms and the casual female company he preferred to warm his bed bit deep. He despised the matrimonial state and the dangerous emotions involved in any close relationship with a woman, which he avoided like the plague. He had so far skillfully dodged the continual pressure from his advisors to wed and produce heirs.

But that was before hearing of the betrothal his mortal enemy to Ewan MacKenzie’s sister, a woman he had never met and knew nothing about. He needed those trade routes.

“So, the plan is fer us tae attend the ball at Dunollie and find out if the betrothal is official. If nae, then she’s fair game. I can match any offer Munro’s made tae MacKenzie and more tae gain her hand. I have a navy, he daesnae fer one.”

Laurence nodded. “And if the lassie loves the schemin’ jackass?”

“Let’s wait until we get there, eh? The important thing tae remember is we’re nae goin’ tae provoke a confrontation, just tae observe and find out the facts of the matter. Once I ken those, then I’ll decide me next move.”

“Just out of interest, what’s the lassie’s name?” Laurence asked.

Darragh shrugged. “Nay idea. ’Tis of nay importance. I’ll find out when I get there.”

“Cold, Braither, even fer ye, seein’ as ye’re set on marryin’ her yersel’. So, I suppose ye’ve never seen her and dinnae ken what she looks like. I mean if ye intend tae wed the lass…”

“I presume she has a head and two arms and legs or she would nae be in the market fer a husband, would she?”

Laurence smiled and shook his head. “Well, this promises tae be a match made in heaven, eh?”

“I dinnae care if she’s sky-blue-pink with spots all over her, man, as long as she’s got a tongue in her head and can say her vows, that’ll dae me fine. I dinnae intend tae spend a lot of time with her after we’re wed.” He looked into the flames. “’Tis those trade routes that I fancy. If I have tae make the sacrifice and take a wife, then those will make it worth me while.”

 

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Chapter One

September 1313

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

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

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

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

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

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

The chief of Clan Munro.

And soon—her fiancé.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he’s too polished, too flashy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He feels… dangerous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Desire.

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

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

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

They kept their voices low. Elliot was speaking.

“The sooner we get shackled, the better.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He then turned to Isla with narrowed lids.

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

 

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I ken nay other,” he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is he tryin’ tae start a fight?

Isla was alive to the tension in the air.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ye see naethin’.”

Is it so obvious?

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

“Stop pokin’ yer nose.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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Scotland, November 1720

Near the coast of the Isle of Skye

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her thoughts drifted back over every mile of it.

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

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

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

And then the Highlands themselves – magnificent and merciless.

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

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

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

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

She closed her eyes briefly.

English voices startled her back to wakefulness.

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

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

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

Selene smiled politely in silent agreement.

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

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

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

Back to England. To familiarity. To ease.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not yet,” Selene replied with a grin.

“A dreadful concoction,” the lady declared.

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

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

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

“You drink far too much of it.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

Selene frowned. “Why so?”

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

The words fell heavily between them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only then did the quiet descend.

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

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

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

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

That night, sleep came unevenly.

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

Something moved beyond it.

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

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

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

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

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

Morning arrived, iron-grey and cold.

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

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

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

Selene nodded, following him, keeping her stride firm.

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

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

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

She kept thinking about the English couple and her dream.

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

Jake was frowning slightly but made no remark.

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

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

She did not look back.

 

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Chapter One

Scotland November 1720

Near the coast of the Isle of Skye

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.

 

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