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Scorrybreac Castle, Isle of Skye, Scotland, January 1312

Tyra MacNeacail paced the long length of the solar. The fire glowed bright in the giant hearth, her discarded embroidery lying crumpled on the mat where she’d dropped it. But she paid it no heed, her mind had frozen when the scullery maid had delivered her note on the tray with her refreshments.

Her heart pounding as she strode, her hands trembling and clammy, she attempted to settle herself sufficiently to take up the parchment, crack open the seal, and read the contents. Yet, she knew full well that the note – like all the others that had been delivered over the past weeks – would contain nothing but cruelty and wickedness. The cursed things had been as mysterious as they were hideous. They’d appeared under her door at the dead of night, on her table, even under her pillow. Now this one, delivered to the solar by an unwitting maid.

She smoothed her hair with long elegant fingers, even though not a blonde hair was out of place in her elaborate coif. Her gown was of fine blue wool, her stockings silk, her boots leather, yet, all her finery brought her no pleasure or delight. The castle where she’d been raised had once been a place of comfort and safety and had always surrounded her with warmth and kindness. Yet now she felt exposed, vulnerable, in deadly danger, even though she was supposedly safe behind its sheltering walls.

The door swung open and Annora, the wife of Tyra’s half-brother, the Laird Edmund, swept into the room. She was a little breathless, as if she’d been running, her dark brows drawn together in a worried frown.

“Oh, Tyra. I hurried here as soon as I heard. Are ye all right? The maid came tae me with word that ye’d been sent yet another message. Daes it contain the same threats?”

Tyra crossed the room to embrace her sister-in-law.

The two women hugged, Tyra clinging for reassurance to her sister.

“What are we tae dae Tyra? I dinnae believe ye can continue like this. Ye’re thin and pale, and I notice ye dinnae eat at supper time when we’re together.”

Tyra hauled in a deep breath to steady herself before she responded. She emptied her lungs and inhaled again, pointing with shaking fingers toward the offending parchment on the table.

“I havenae been able tae bring meself tae open it.”

She sank into one of the comfortable chairs in front of the fire, burying her head in her hands.

Annora stood beside her, a hand on her shoulder. “I dinnae ken how I can help ye.”

Tyra looked up, her eyes glazed with tears. “I dinnae believe anyone can help.”

Sighing, Annora was wringing her hands. “There must be something we can dae.”

Tyra reluctantly rose to her feet and walked across to the table. She picked up the note, holding it between the tip of her forefinger and thumb as if the very act of touching it would bring her harm.

As Annora stood by, Tyra cracked open the splotch of deep red sealing wax and folded out the parchment. She offered it to Annora.

“I cannae read this. Can ye please read it on me behalf?”

Reluctantly, Annora, held up the parchment, scanning it with her gaze. She paled, gasping, placing a hand at her throat, her eyes anguished.

“This makes me feel ill as if I have the black fever. Me stomach roils to look at it. I cannae believe anyone can be so wicked as tae send such a note.”

Tyra reached across to take the note, shaking her head, the tears now trickling down her pale cheeks.

Lady Tyra of the foul Clan MacNeacail, she read aloud, shivering at every word. I look forward tae the day when I will gut ye like a fish.

She gasped and cried out. “That is truly awful Annora.” She turned to pace the length of the solar one more time, refusing to glance at the parchment she still held in her hand.

Annora hurried after her and placed an arm around her waist.

“I ken this is a terrible burden on ye. We all feel it. Me dear husband Edmund and meself worry each day and night fer yer safety. Double guards have been placed at the portcullis and along the wall.”

“Yet somehow, these cursed notes still find their way tae me.”

Guiding Tyra back to her seat, Annora waited until she had regained the comfort of her chair and then took the seat beside her again.

“Look at this,” Tyra brandished the note, her voice wavering. “Whoever wrote this, wants me without breath, gasping like a fish, and then…” she shuddered. “He will slice me open, rip out me heart and entrails, sever me head and display it on a pike.”

“And whoever it was who wrote this, and all the other notes, is clearly mad.” Annora said, firmly. “Ye mustnae take it tae heart. He cannae touch ye here.”

Tyra moaned. “If he can penetrate our defenses tae somehow send his message tae the castle, then how dae I ken he willnae send an assassin tae capture me, or kill me in me bed, or while I’m bathing, or even here…” she looked around, rolling her eyes. “While I sit at me embroidery.”

Annora groaned. “I cannae say. Both Edmund and meself believe the threats are real.”

“I ken they are real. And I ken the madman who sends them,” she clenched her fists, “’tis the man I once believed loved me. The man I once gave me heart tae. Me betrothed. The man who betrayed all of us with his lies and treachery. The Laird Harris MacDonald of Sleat.”

“Aye.” Annora gave a weary shake of her head. “He is forbidden tae ever enter our lands. Yet, ye are right. These missives find their way into the very heart of the castle.”

The two women lapsed into a strained silence, Tyra’s thoughts racing. If only she could bury her head under the coverlets on her bed and never arise again. There was nowhere that seemed safe to her. Every figure she encountered in the passageway, or striding in the courtyard, could be someone intent on ending her life. Or worse still, abducting her and taking her to someplace where Harris could vent his fury and madness on her as he’d been threatening.

Annora rose to her feet and reached for Tyra’s hand.

“Come. Let us take this most recent missive tae Edmund. Mayhaps he will find a way to keep ye safe.”

Tyra stood, the note in her hand, giving Annora a watery smile. “Aye. Me braither’s wisdom is what I wish fer.”

***

Edmund had only just returned to his study after a morning in the jousting yard with his lance. He was hot and his arms were aching from the many thrusts he’d made with his heavy weapon. Yet there was satisfaction in it.

He called “Enter,” when he heard his beloved wife at his door, and both Annora and his sister entered. From their expressions, he expected bad news. He drew in a sharp breath as he caught sight of the folded parchment in Tyra’s hand.

She held it out and he reached for it. “Another?”

Both Annora and Tyra nodded, their faces etched with worry and concern. He could see the newly drawn lines of fear on his sister’s bonnie face. This was no good. He clenched his fists. His thoughts tangled momentarily with the bodily damage he would do to Laird Harris if he should be found within the boundaries of the lands belonging to Clan MacNeacail.

He gestured to the two women to sit, while he stood by the fire and read the message.

His faced darkened to thunder as he read the hate-filled words.

“This is shorter than the others, but even more vicious.” He moved to the drawer in his cabinet and withdrew a sheaf of similar parchments, tied with a length of black string.

Shuffling through them, he grunted. “From the first of his notes, when he seemed only to hint at harm,” he held up a several notes, “they have gradually become more menacing and even more evil. He speaks of ruining yer name, then destroying what ye love and what brings ye pleasure. He speaks of killing yer falcon and yer favorite mare and laying them at yer door. It appears that as the months wear on, his fury grows until the threats are now directed at yer person wi’ the aim of maiming ye and, ultimately, bringing about yer death.”

Tyra’s tears were flowing freely now. “Aye.” She looked up her brother an Annora with tear-stained eyes. “From the venomous snake he threatened tae place in me bed, tae drowning me in the burn as a witch and setting me on fire. Now this latest.”

Frowning fiercely, Edmund growled. “The man is clearly dangerous and should be destroyed like a mad dog.”

Annora nodded, giving him a wry smile.

“Indeed, ye are correct, Edmund. However, our chief mission now must be tae keep our dear Tyra safe from harm. If the man can send a message and we cannae detect the messenger, there’s nay telling whether or nae he can enter our keep.”

Edmund nodded. “Of course.” He turned to Tyra, “Yer safekeeping is uppermost in our minds.” He replaced the collection of notes in the drawer, adding the most recent missive.

“I have given much thought tae this. It is me view that as long as ye are here at Scorrybreac ye are in grave danger.”

“But where can I go?” Tyra clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap, twisting the folds of her woolen skirt.

“When I saw the threats becoming murderous, I took it on meself tae contact the Abbot at Pluscarden”. Edmund turned to Tyra. “He is a distant relative of our faither’s and I believe he may be able tae help.”

“Help? How?” Tyra asked.

“He has spoken with Mother Matilda at the Pluscarden Nunnery. She has agreed tae grant ye shelter there, as an oblate.”

Tyra gasped. “But… that would mean I must travel there. Pluscarden is at Moray, a great distance from us. Would it nae make sense fer me tae take shelter at Iona?”

“Iona is much closer, ‘tis true. But if Harris somehow learns ye’ve taken shelter wi’ the nuns, that is where he will go in search of ye. He’ll nae search fer ye at Moray.”

Annora was nodding. “I see this may be the answer we need.”

“’Tis practical, I admit, but I dinnae wish tae go so far from home.” Tyra looked from one face to the other, but Emund shook his head.

“I dinnae wish fer ye tae leave us, me wee sister. But if ye are safe wi’ the nuns, I can hope tae seek a marriage fer ye. Once ye are betrothed it will be unlikely that Harris will harm ye.”

Annora pshawed. “I’d nae trust him.”

Edmund nodded. “Surely, only a true madman would bring down the wrath of two clans on his head.”

Tyra drew a sharp breath. “A true madman is exactly what he is, Edmund.”

Always practical, Annora leaned forward. “When is Tyra meant tae leave us?”

“I dinnae wish tae leave me home.” Tyra looked from one to the other, but both Annora and Edmund were immovable.

“I can see nay other solution. Ye are correct when ye say our own keep may nae be able tae provide protection from a villain like Harris. I shall send a messenger tae the mainland tae make arrangements fer ye tae stay at the inns along the way and tae have horses ready fer ye.”

“And am I tae travel alone? Ye’ll nae accompany me?” Tyra’s voice shook.

Edmund enfolded her hand in his. “Me plan calls fer ye tae leave as soon as ye make ready. Me birlinn will take ye across. There is a need fer stealth. I wish ye tae make yer way before there is a chance fer Harris tae ken ye’re gone. It shall be a small party with soldiers from me garrison as yer guards. Harris will nae anticipate ye’ll be traveling in the depths of winter.”

Annora reached for Tyra’s other hand and squeezed it.

“Me dear sister, I ken yer life here is much curtailed by these terrible threats. ‘Tis nae the weather that keeps ye inside the confines of the keep, but fear. Even though ye’ll be mostly within the cloisters at Pluscarden, ye’ll be free tae walk abroad and tae visit the village.”

Tyra sighed. “I understand and I am grateful fer yer concern and fer yer help. But please,” she turned pleading eyes to Edmund. “Find me a husband as soon as ye can, fer I’m nae one fer the quiet contemplative life of the nuns.”

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Chapter One

February 1312

Near Castle Eilean Donan, Wester Ross

Shivering in the bone-deep cold, Tyra MacNeacail tugged the hood of her fur-lined cloak to cover over her hair from the steadily falling snowflakes.

Although not a great distance, the passage across the sea from her home on the Isle of Skye to Wester Ross had been rough. She’d suffered terribly from seasickness, spending the voyage clinging to the rails of her half-brother Edmund’s birlinn, wishing for nothing more than to let the waves take her and plunge her to the bottom of the briny sea.

Yet, she’d survived, and here she was, en route to the Priory of Pluscarden at Moray, which was at least another three days’ ride. She shivered at the prospect of days on horseback in this freezing weather, when her legs were like jelly and her derrière already felt bruised and battered.

Dugald MacLeod, one of the two lads guarding her who had ridden ahead through the gathering gloom, grinned as he rode up to her, his bridle jangling. Judging by his ruddy cheeks and red nose he was feeling the cold as keenly as she was.

“The village is nae much further now, Lady Tyra.”

Her two stalwart defenders had been charged with keeping her safe at all costs. Even though she would have felt safer with a larger contingent of men-at-arms, she knew they would draw attention. To evade possible pursuit, this journey was meant for stealth, and she’d been whisked away from the castle and the island in secrecy.

She craned her neck, searching the dark, forbidding sky for a friendly spiral of smoke from a cottage chimney. But all was lost in the clouds.

“Thank ye Dugald. It will be good tae find a warm fire and something tae fill our bellies.”

Here in the rugged country, she was further from her home than she had ever traveled before, and to her great dismay, where she was heading was not at all to her liking. Once they arrived at the priory, her life would be lived in quiet reflection and prayer. It was a far cry from the bright, joyous, life she’d once believed would be hers. She sighed again.

It was not as if she had anything against nuns, but she’d always known the life of silent contemplation was not for her.

What she’d pictured for herself – not too long ago – was being wed to the man she loved, bearing his children, and creating a family of her own. Even though her hopes of a happy home had been dashed most cruelly, a tiny part of her still hoped and dreamed that somewhere there might be some happiness she could call hers.

But that hope was kept locked away in the furthest reaches of her heart, surrounded by a high stone wall that no one would ever be permitted to breach.

Over the past months she’d received an angry swarm of unsigned missives, all of them filled with dire threats of a cruel fate awaiting her – even threatening her death. At first, she’d said nothing, trying to ignore the letters, but as they became more numerous, they took a cruel toll. The threats haunted her. She’d become fearful, unable to sleep, nauseous, fretting over food she’d once enjoyed, her clothes loosening as she grew thin.

When, finally, she’d revealed to her brother and sister-in-law what troubled her, Laird Edmund had made every effort to discover who was sending the messages. Despite his efforts, the identity of the sender remained a mystery, yet as far as Edmund was concerned, they were sent by Laird Harris MacDonald, the man to whom Tyra had been betrothed. But there was no proof that MacDonald was the culprit and, ultimately, she had no recourse but to reluctantly agree with her brother’s plan to send her to safety at Pluscarden.

She shook her head. The memory of her fiancé’s betrayal was still too raw, too cruel, to allow her thoughts to dwell there.

Her fingers plucked idly at the reins. These last hours on horseback since leaving the ship had tired her, and she looked forward to a rest from the journey and a few blessed moments to herself.

Eager to escape the weather, all three urged their horses into a canter as the curling smoke from the scattering of whitewashed cottages ahead finally came into view.

The village was tiny, the population consisting of only a handful of fishermen, the landlord of the inn, and his staff.

In only a few minutes they were clattering into the deserted inn yard of Thistle and Briar. Ghillie, her other guard, assisted Tyra to dismount and handed her reins to the ostler, who was standing by ready to lead their horses into the stables.

“Feed them well,” Tyra said, “We’ve three more days before we reach our destination and our horses – and ourselves – will be sorely tested over such harsh country.” She glanced around, theirs were the only horses she could see. “Are there others staying here?”

“Nay, milady, ye and yer lads are the only ones taking respite here from this foul weather.”

This was good news. The fewer folk there were to take notice of her little party, the better.

Dugal left them, striding into the inn to consult the landlord about their overnight accommodation and to arrange a meal for all three. While Ghillie busied himself unstrapping their panniers, she stretched her arms and rolled her head to rid herself of the cursed crick in her neck. Her shoulders were tight with tension.

“I will walk a little way, Ghillie, I need tae stretch me limbs after such a long ride.” She gave a soft laugh. “Me poor legs are complaining that I have been sitting too long at me embroidery these past months.”

The man looked up, anxious creases appearing on his face.

“I’ll set this task aside, melady, and accompany ye. ‘Tis me first priority tae keep ye safe.”

Desperate to have a moment to herself, she tutted. “Dinnae fash, Ghillie. I’ll be back in minutes. I’ve nay intention of walking far, I just wish tae stretch me limbs after so long in the saddle and at sea. ‘Tis surely safe enough here. We’re far from Skye, and I doubt danger has followed us over the sea.” Although she understood the need for caution, the constant surveillance left her on edge, adding to her sense of peril rather than alleviating it.

Ghillie hastily redid the belt on the saddle that held the pannier. She saw him signal to the ostler who was waiting at the stables but she was in no mind to wait for him.

Breathing deeply, exhaling small, steamy clouds into the icy air, Tyra tramped along the muddy roadway, passing a row of fishermen’s cottages along the seafront where several small craft were tied.

Some distance behind her, Ghillie was hurrying to try and catch up.

She nodded to an old woman who shuffled past, bundled into so many layers of clothing that only her eyes and a tuft of grey hair were visible. There were only a few villagers about, hurrying, heads down against the falling snow, most of them carrying baskets or sacks of provisions.

As a fisherman informed her, this time of year, there was little fresh produce available, and the villagers survived with bartering between themselves of salted fish, eggs and cheese, drawing on supplies laid up from harvest time.

Realizing with a jolt that she’d walked further than she intended and had passed the last of the cottages, Tyra turned back into the gathering darkness. She’d only walked a few paces toward the now distant lights, when she heard quick footsteps surging behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder just in time to witness the dark figure of a man emerging from the woods beside the road, rushing toward her.

Heart stuttering, she broke into a run, but before she’d progressed more than a yard or two a rough hand was laid on her shoulder, restraining her. A wild scream of terror and rage broke from her throat as she struggled against the man, trying to tear herself from his grip.

It was only a moment before she felt the point of a dirk pressed hard into her ribcage, the sharp edge just piercing her skin.

“Hold still, ye chit,” came a gruff, muffled voice out of the darkness, “or I’ll slice ye like a slaughtered lamb.”

She managed another piercing scream before a giant hand came up, crushing her lips against her teeth, brutally attempting to stifle the scream about to fly from her mouth. Pulling her head back, her screams reduced to mere guttural bleats, she looked around, helplessly, for someone who might help.

Her blood ran hot with elation as she made out the figure of Ghillie rushing toward her in the gloom. And, not far behind him was Dugal.

For once their surveillance was not a burden but a source of hope.

The foul-smelling man who was holding her must have caught sight of the two men rushing to her rescue with swords raised, for he grunted, dragging her backwards a few steps.

Dugal was shouting as he raced toward her, “Halt, ye swine. Let the lady go.”

The man snarled. “Come closer, and the lady dies.” She felt the sting as he dug his blade against her ribs.

While his attention was momentarily diverted by her lads, she made a sudden twist that caused him to him to fumble with the dirk. Struggling, she managed to keep out of reach of his weapon, yelling with all her might to her defenders. “Take nay notice, lads. Come quick. He cannae hold me.”

In a trice, Ghillie and Dugal closed in and her captor was forced to let her go, turning to face the slashing swords of her would-be rescuers. Taking advantage of the moment, grabbing up her skirt, Tyra turned and raced back along the road, her ears resounding with men’s shouts, her rasping, indrawn breath and the deadly clash of steel on steel.

Glancing back over her shoulder as she ran, she was horrified to see two more men dashing onto the road. One of the newcomers engaged with her two men-at-arms, who turned to take the fight fiercely, while the third man set off in hot pursuit after Tyra.

She gasped in a breath and, gathering her courage, made a desperate bid to outrun him, her feet in her leather boots slipping and sliding in the rutted road, her skirt and petticoat tangling around her legs, slowing her down.

Up ahead, two villagers, watched, seemingly spellbound at the action taking place. As she drew closer to the bystanders, the man gaining on her with every step, she beseeched them for aid.

“Help me,” she yelled. But the two women seemed frozen to the spot, watching helplessly as her pursuer caught up with her, seizing her arm in an iron grip. She struggled, managing to drag her own dirk from her belt, slashing wildly at the man’s arm.

“Damn ye,” he cursed, lashing out with a fist, sending her dirk flying from her hand. Yet that brief moment’s respite provided her with an opportunity to break free. Summoning every last scrap of her failing strength to evade him, she ran screaming toward the inn, now not more than thirty yards further on.

But the road was empty, there were no villagers to lend her assistance and she still was too far from the inn to expect any help to come from the men there. Her soldiers were likely still fighting the other two attackers, yet Tyra didn’t dare look back to confirm, reluctant to lose even a moment of momentum.

Although willing herself on, she was puffing, chest heaving, out of breath, her body tiring. Her legs, heavy as lead, were giving out. Try as she might, she found her steps slowing.

In a flash the man was on her again, only now he was joined by the others.

Have me two soldiers been killed?

Before she could draw breath to scream again for help, the men had seized her arms and grabbed her around the waist, holding her fast. Twisting and turning, screaming desperately for aid that was not forthcoming, there was no escape. Two of them pinned her arms while the other bound a cloth tightly around her mouth, silencing her screams.

“Hurry lads,” one of the men ground out, “Before someone comes looking fer her.”

The two men holding her arms half-carried, half-dragged her back along the road where she’d so recently strolled, enjoying her momentarily illusion of freedom. Her heart was pounding with the force of a thousand hooves as, with every step, she was forced further away from any chance of rescue.

To her horror and building despair, she glimpsed the fallen, motionless, shapes of Dugal and Ghillie lying where they’d so bravely fought for her. She made a mewling sound in her throat and one of the men laughed.

She cast him a deathly look of loathing.

“We made short work of yer men, milady.” He chuckled again before turning to the men gripping her arms. “Nay time tae waste, lads, the laird is waiting.”

Her heart froze over at his words.

Harris kent…

There was no doubt in her mind that the ‘laird’ he mentioned was the man her family had long suspected of sending the threatening notes. Her former betrothed, a man she’d once trusted with all her being, Laird Harris MacDonald.

But how had these men located her so easily? They must have been aware she’d be traveling that way and laid in wait for her arrival.

Of course, a spy in the castle at Scorrybreac must have revealed the plan to send her to safety at the distant priory. She had hoped that, as she was travelling in the depths of winter, a time when few travelers were foolhardy enough to be on the roads, her departure would be unnoticed. Both she and Edmund had hoped the snowfall, storms, and the freezing weather would hoodwink her nemesis into believing she would never set forth under such conditions.

It was obvious Harris – she was certain now it was him– had called their bluff and sent his minions to accost her.

“Where are ye taking me?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “Think ye can just drag me off like a sack of grain?”

Are we heading tae the woods? Dear God, naebody will find me there, I cannae let them drag me there!

“Let me go.” she snapped, thrashing against their hold. She knew shouting would do little good, but the silence of the woods made her words echo louder, braver, than she felt inside.

At the sight of their horses waiting, her heart sank. Once they were mounted and on their way, no one would have any knowledge of where she was or how to find her.

Her mind was reeling. Now that her defenders had been so cruelly dispatched, she held little or no hope of rescue. By the time word reached her half-brother that she was missing, she would have long been at the mercy of a man who had threatened her.

That is, if she still lived.

Would they take her to Sleat on the Isle of Skye, to the home of her former betrothed? Or would they simply deal with her in the woods, here, now, out of sight of the small, unseeing, scattering of houses?

She did not allow herself to lose hope altogether. If they planned to sail back to Skye there might be a chance of saving herself. There must be something she could do despite the obvious threat those rough men posed. It was clear to her they meant her nothing but harm and would stop at nothing.

Renewing her struggle, she attempted to bite one of the brute hands that clutched her arm.

“Ye wee vixen,” the man grunted and slapped her hard across the face. “Stop yer struggling.”

Her head flew back with the impact and she gasped at the sudden pain. Her chest ached with the effort of drawing breath, but she pulled again at the hands holding her.

After tramping for some minutes through the woods, they arrived at the banks of a small, frozen burn. Grunting with the effort, they dragged her, slipping and sliding, over pebbles to cross the solid expanse of ice ahead of them.

The slick, slithery surface made it difficult for the men holding her to keep their balance as she struggled. Feeling their grip on her loosening, she deliberately allowed her feet to slide out from under her. Tumbling onto the ice she brought her two captors down with her in a tangle of limbs. Her hands suddenly free, she struggled to her feet and pulled down the cloth gag around her mouth, screaming at the top of her lungs.

With the men clutched at her skirts as they attempted to rise, she stamped down hard, wrenching herself free as their fingers slipped from the cloth. She staggered on the rough ice, arms flailing for balance, before forcing her legs into motion and breaking away in a wild dash. She was more nimble and lighter than her pursuers, and she managed to gain a yard or two as they stumbled behind her, yelling at her to stop.

“It will go worse fer ye, ye little vixen, when we catch ye,” one of the men shouted.

“Aye. I’ll tan that wee hide of yer bahookie so that it’s black and blue. Ye’ll nay sit fer a week without squeaking in pain,” called another.

She kept on, holding her skirt high, ignoring their threats, her pounding heart jolting at the hateful man’s words.

If he contemplates me pain lasting fer a week, it must mean I’m tae be kept alive fer at least that length of time.

Her will kept her upright, forging ahead with no idea where she was going, yet building faint hopes she might somehow evade her captors. They were so close behind her she could hear their harsh breaths as they struggled on the icy surface, but she was inching ahead.

Yet the power of her determination could not stretch much further. Her strength was ebbing fast when she felt hands scrabbling at her skirt, wrenching her backwards, forcing her to lose her balance and slip onto the ice.

Her two pursuers grabbed at her, attempting to pinion her legs as she kicked out at them, using all her strength and was rewarded with a grunt from one of them. But despite her efforts, she was powerless against their fierce strength. She let fly a Banshee scream, emptying her lungs, her heart plummeting as the full recognition of the deathly danger she was in hit home.

“Take yer hands off me,” she shrieked. “Ye’ve nay right tae touch me.” Her voice was shrill with terror and despair as she fought to stay out of their grip.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere came a deep, commanding, voice rumbling over the ice like a coming thunderstorm.

“Dae as the lady tells ye lads. Take yer brute hands off her.”

Chapter Two

In the dim light Tyra could only just make out the tall figure of a man as he stepped onto the ice ahead of her, holding his claymore at his shoulder, ready to strike.

As silent and still as a statue, despite the treacherous ice underfoot, he reached a hand for her as her attackers fell back.

Shaking all over, she took the stranger’s hand and he helped her up.

“Behind me,” he ordered.

Her heart jumping wildly, she obeyed without question, slithering behind his broad back in a trice, while her pursuers took a step in retreat. It was clear that whoever that man was, he was no friend of theirs.

One of the men sprang forward, holding out a long dagger, crouching low, the fingertips of one hand holding him steady on the ice while the other aimed his blade at the intruder’s thigh, ready to bring him down.

With one terrible swoop of his claymore, the stranger cleaved the hand holding the knife from the man’s arm. Then, as the screaming man rolled on the ice, the stranger skewered him with the point of his blade with a lightning-fast move through his heart.

Tyra swallowed her breath as another man crept from the side holding a short sword aloft, preparing to strike. The stranger swiveled toward the man, wielding his deadly claymore once more.

His opponent had not a whisker of a chance. The tall swordsman, with one swift motion, sliced the creeping man’s throat with the long claymore before he could even draw close enough to land his blow. He went down, blood gushing from his wound, to lie motionless on the ice.

After watching both his companions dispatched to their fate, the third man managed to edge his way to the place where Tyra crouched behind her rescuer. He snatched at her arm and dragged her to stand as a shield between himself and the swordsman, shoving his dagger ruthlessly at her throat.

The warrior swiveled toward them, blood dripping from his claymore.

“Hold, where ye are,” Tyra’s captor growled. “I’m taking the lass wi’ me and ye’ll nae stop me.”

Her breath was coming high and fast in her throat as the man dragged her to the edge of the ice, the warrior standing by silent and still, able to do little more than watch. She had no doubt the man gripping her arm so painfully with his dirk at her throat would not hesitate to plunge it into her neck if any move was made by her rescuer.

A heartbeat passed, then two, and with each moment she was closer to the edge and her captor’s escape.

Without a thought she let herself go limp, turning into a dead weight, giving no thought to the possibility of the knife ending her life. She already knew it would be forfeit if the man succeeded in taking her.

As she slumped to the ice, the man’s balance was upended, his feet slithered as he desperately sought to regain his balance, his hands flailed, the dirk fell onto the ice with a clatter. Before he could right himself, the warrior was upon him, with moves as swift as lightning.

In a trice the claymore severed the man’s head from his body, and blood spurting, what remained of Tyra’s assailant fell and rolled off the ice to lie the gravel and pebbles at the side of the burn.

There was no strength left in her legs to help her scramble to her feet as her savior lifted her from the ice where she lay. His arm surrounded her waist and he held her tightly, here legs giving way. She registered the strength in his arm, the hardness of his chest, his scent of sweat and leather filling her nostrils as she leaned into him.

Her heart stuttered at the knowledge that his man had risked his life to save her.

“Can ye walk, lass. I’ve a horse tethered nearby and I wish tae leave this place with all speed.”

“Aye, I believe I can,” she whispered, trembling from head to toe, still not quite sure if she was alive or dead. He supported her with his strong arm at her waist as she walked with him until they came upon the place where his horse was tethered.

“Are ye injured, milady? Have any of those brutes hurt ye or harmed ye?

“Nay.” She managed a soft laugh. “There may be a bruise or two on the morrow, yet, thanks tae ye I have all me arms and legs and me throat intact.”

He held her upright, waiting while she restored her balance, despite trembling from head to toe now that the ordeal was over.

“I thank ye, sire. I am deeply grateful tae ye fer rescuing me. If ye’d nae come when ye did, the Lord kens what would have become of me.”

“I did what I had tae, lass. I saw ye were in a dire situation.” He bowed from the waist. “I am the Laird Ewan Mackenzie, milady. As ye are on me lands ye are under me protection.” Through a sliver of moonlight creating a small, dappled place among the snowclad trees, she sensed his eyes on her. Looking up, she caught his puzzled expression. “I can scarce make out yer features, lass, yet from what I can tell ye’re nae kent tae me. Are ye nae from around here?”

She felt a moment’s relief. Surely the Mackenzies were nae friends to the MacDonalds of Sleat. But in the tumble of thoughts bedeviling her mind, she struggled to recall what she knew of the clan’s alliances.

“I am half-sister tae Laird Edmund of the MacNeacail Clan of Scorrybreac on the Isle of Skye.”

“I am well pleased tae be of service milady. But what were ye thinking lass, tae be abroad on such an inclement night as this in a place where those ruffians could attack ye?”

She huffed in indignation. “’Twas nay fault of mine that I was waylaid. I had merely taken a turn tae stretch me legs after arriving at the inn with me two men-at-arms.” She sniffed loudly, recalling the dreadful fact that both Dugal and Ghillie were no more. “I believed we were in a place of safety.”

He grunted as he untied is horse’s reins from where he was tethered. “I can only apologize that ye met danger here on me lands. I didnae ken there were bandits hereabouts. I shall have me men patrol the braes and the glens tae ensure there are nay other ruffians here tae imperil travelers in me lands.”

She raised a hand, slanting him a smile. “Nay mind, Laird Mackenzie. I believe it was me those blackguards were pursuing.”

He glanced up at her in alarm. “How so?”

“I cannae say at this moment.”

“It seems a hidden menace may have caught up with ye.”

She peered at him warily. In the dim light it was not possible to see if his eyes were honest. While her body still surged with the shock of the attack, it seemed sheer foolishness to trust this man. Though his words and brave actions identified him as a noble man, she had no way of being sure he was the laird he claimed to be.

For all she knew, he could be an ally of MacDonald.

Sucking in a desperate breath she continued to search her memory for any recollection of Clan Mackenzie and their alliances. Her head swam as she tried to remember anything she’d heard of the Mackenzies from Harris MacDonald when she’d been in his company.

She only knew MacDonald was a traitor who had betrayed her and her clan. His allegiances were not to other Scotsmen, but to English and southern barons who could buy him with gold and influence from their king.

No. She made up her mind. This man was not allied with MacDonald.

His hand was still on her waist and she found herself reassured by the strength of his arm. Even though, in the hint of moonlight she could only make out his tall, broad outline, there was something in that deep, baritone voice flowing like treacle over her senses that warmed and comforted her.

“We’d best be gone from this place.” He enfolded her in his wool cloak, keeping her close. Are ye fit tae ride before me on the saddle, lass? I’ll take ye tae the village.”

Tyra thought she could trust him to escort her to the inn. “Aye. I would be grateful if ye could take me tae The Thistle and Briar where me horses and belongings are being held.”

He held out his hand to assist her to mount. “There’s nay telling if those evil-doers have companions close at hand waiting tae finish the job they were set tae dae.”

She placed one hand on the saddle and he lifted her with ease. Once she was settled, he sprang up behind her.

It seemed natural to lean against him as the horse began its slow and difficult walk through the trees toward the roadway. The uneven ground was blanketed with white and a smattering of snowflakes still swirled in the air. Tyra was shivering now, her teeth chattering both with cold and the horror of what she’d been through.

Something stirred deep inside her. It had been so long since she’d been held and comforted, feeling the strength of a man supporting her. She allowed herself to sway with him, inhaling his scent of horse, leather and sweat, and even the faint, metallic, reek of blood.

Tyra MacNeacail, what on earth are ye thinking? Ye cannae let down yer guard, even fer a second, nay matter how tired and cold ye might be. Unseen danger is all around.

She stiffened, shifting in the saddle, creating distance between herself and the Mackenzie – if that was truly who he was – shocked at the power of her reaction to his nearness.

Her mind struggled with the question of what she should do once she reached the inn.

Should she seek to employ two men from the village to act as her guardians and continue on her journey? Or should she return to Skye? If Harris had, as she now believed, tracked her, there was no longer any call for secrecy. Wherever she went he would likely know her whereabouts.

She caught her breath, her heart foundering, as the danger she was in fully dawned.

Ewan swung his horse into the inn yard. The landlord who had been standing by the door, rushed forward to greet them, wringing his hands.

He nodded to Tyra and bowed to Ewan, tugging his forelock between fingers and thumb.

“Thank the dear Lord the lady is safe wi’ ye, Laird Ewan. When word came that two men had been slain and there was nay sign of her, we feared the worst.”

Ewan dismounted and lifted Tyra out of the saddle to stand, still unsteady, beside him. She inclined against him, still unsure of her footing, greatly relieved to hear the landlord addressing him as “laird,” verifying who he claimed himself to be.

“The lady requires a warm fire and a bowl of good broth tae warm her.”

“Of course, Laird Ewan. It is all prepared and awaiting her pleasure in the parlor, even though I was afeared she was lost tae us.”

Within the space of only a few minutes, Tyra peeled off her damp outer garments, placed a soft, warm rug around her shoulders, and was seated by a roaring fire, with a large steaming bowl of chicken broth beside her on a small table.

She supped on the delicious broth, savoring the taste of carrots and barley along with the chicken, slowly feeling the return of life to her fingers and toes.

All at once, both her prospects – a return to Skye, or the onward journey to the Priory – overwhelmed her, washing over her like a king tide. One false step and she’d be swallowed whole. For several long moments she felt herself deluged with hopelessness.

But soon she straightened her shoulders. This self-pitying would never do. She must make sense of what had taken place, summon her courage, and make plans.

After consulting with the landlord for some minutes Ewan strode back into the room standing tall before the fireplace.

“I’ve given instructions fer yer two lads tae be taken care of. If ye wish, I shall make arrangements for them tae be returned tae Skye tae their families.”

She nodded her agreement. It was painful to think of the terrible fate that had befallen her trusty companions. There would be much grieving in the MacNeacail keep at their loss.

He turned to her and dipped his head so that his face was captured in the golden light of the fire and she saw him fully for the first time.

His features were rugged and weather-worn, indicating a man who spent much of his time outdoors. His nose was straight and proud, his cheeks had seen the angles of a sharp blade, and his mouth was wide and generous. She would not call him handsome but something more compelling. This was a man who stood his ground proudly, who would not quail in the face of danger, a man who could earn the trust of a lady, not demand it. He was unlike any man she’d ever seen.

Her heart jumped. His appearance was as distant to that of her former fiancé as day was to night. Where Harris was tall and slender, this man towered, his shoulders and chest were expansive, while the great size and strength of his arms robbed her breath. She’d seen him wield his hefty claymore as if it was nothing but a twig. And, where Harris’s hands were elegant and soft, this man’s hands were broad, scarred, and calloused, hinting at the warrior she knew him to be.

For the briefest, most foolish moment, she wondered if those roughened hands might, at a touch, prove soft… even gentle.

What am I thinkin’? This is but a stranger I’ll ne’er see again.

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One month earlier…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Chapter One

Scotland, 1629

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A chill traced her spine.

This is nae good…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I cannae let them get hold of me…

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

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

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

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

If Ι could stretch far enough out of his grasp…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let the lass go!”

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

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

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

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

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

“I dinnae think so.”

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

He looks like fury incarnate…

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

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

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

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

“Please, can I take a look?”

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

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

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

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

“Aye? Is that so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sit here.”

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

“Drink this.”

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

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

“It’ll help calm ye nerves.”

Who is he?

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

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

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

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

Is he… flirting?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then I’m honored.”

That earned from her the barest flicker of a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she didn’t.

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

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

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

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

What if someone saw them?

What if me braither did?

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

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

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

Chapter Two

Me Dearest Mairi,

Mairi Cameron

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Tis a chance fer me coming here…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Tis nae possible…

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

Alec…

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

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

“And her braither, Finlay Cameron.”

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

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

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

He’s her faither?

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One month earlier, Constantine’s mercenary hut

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

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

These are MacLean colors…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The clan needs ye.”

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

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

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

He’s offering power.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let them stare.

He’d faced worse than curious eyes and survived.

“Ye must be Constantine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m listenin’.”

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

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

“What are yer conditions?” he asked finally.

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

“Marriage,” Constantine guessed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just hoped he was ready for whatever came next.

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