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Chapter One

Heart pounding, Isolde sat up in her bed at the sound of men shouting and heavy boots running past her bedchamber door. Something was happening. And judging by the sound of it, something serious.

Isolde knew her father’s men had battled a rival clan recently and had been well pleased to have achieved some significant victory over them. Had they come back seeking vengeance?

Isolde slipped out of bed and threw a robe over her shoulders. Moving slowly and cautiously, she reached the door and pressed her ear to it. The voices were muffled but she was still able to make out what they were saying.

“He’s bleedin’ gone,” one gruff voice said.

“The laird is goin’ tae have somebody’s hide fer this,” said another.

“So long as it isnae mine,” said the first. “I’m thankin’ God ‘twas nae me in the cells guardin’ him. Anybody who was is goin’ tae have hell tae pay.”

There was only one prisoner in the dark cells that Isold knew of. One that would warrant that kind of reaction from her father and panic amongst his men. And he’d escaped. She knew it!

“Come,” said the first gruff voice. “We should probably help search for him.”

“Or just be as far away from him as we can,” the second man said. “They say he’s a savage, that one.”

She listened to them retreating and felt her stomach lurch. Her father’s prized possession had escaped and because of it, the corridors of the castle were swathed in chaos. A bolt of excitement crackled through her veins. This was the moment she had been waiting for. Dreaming of. This might be her opportunity to escape the fate her father had chained her to, the marriage he was trying to force upon her, and give her the chance to build her own.

Dashing around her room, Isolde quickly ran to the chest that stood against the wall on the far side of the room and threw it open. Digging furiously through the contents, she pulled out the clothing she’d long ago secreted in the bottom when she’d first began formulating her plan. She’d dreamed of it often but never dared hope it would come to pass. As she listened to the chaos erupting within the castle, she knew it was time.

Isolde pulled on the pair of breeches and dark tunic she’d stolen from the castle’s laundry room. After that, she slipped into the soft boots she’d also procured. Those, she’d had made to ensure they fit and didn’t rub her feet raw when she wore them.

Throwing some spare clothes and a small purse of coin she’d managed to collect into her pack, a pack with herbs and ointments, and a dagger she had prepared, Isolde cinched it closed then slung it over her shoulders. Grabbing a thick cloak, she ran to the door and pressed her ear to it again. The sounds of men running and shouting had faded. The corridor sounded empty. Easing the door open, she peeked outside to confirm the guards normally posted outside had gone. Slipping into the corridor, she closed the door behind her, then dashed down the hallway, her soft boots’ whisper quiet on the stone beneath her feet.

Hearing voices up ahead, Isolde slipped into the shadow alcove near the archway that led into the western wing of the castle and listened. Her blood ran cold at the sound of her father’s voice, tight and furious. There was an edge to his tone, dark and ominous, she had only heard a few times before in her life and it always precipitated something terrible. And she was getting the feeling this would not be any different.

“What in the bleedin’ hell happened?” he demanded.

“We dinnae ken, me laird,” said a man, his voice flustered. “We’re still tryin’ tae figure—”

“Where is he?” her father roared.

“We dinnae ken, me laird. Laird Cameron’s cell was found empty,” the man replied, his voice shaky. “The door had been opened and the man guardin’ the cell was dead. There was blood everywhere.”

He had been taken in the last battle and if he managed to get away, he would surely rain down vengeance upon her father for his capture and that of his brother, who was being held elsewhere. She had never spoken to the man, but she had heard how every warrior feared him. They said he was fierce—perhaps the fiercest warrior in all of Scotland.

She had seen him from afar, hiding in the dungeons, and could confirm he was a handsome man, but that was all she knew about him. Isolde had been curious and had wanted to visit the cells and meet the man herself. She’d wanted to take his measure and see why his name inspired so many different feelings, from fear to lust, but feared incurring her father’s wrath if he discovered her down there.

“How many did he kill?” her father asked.

“Two, me laird.”

Her father fell silent for a long moment and Isolde held her breath. When he was that angry, a sudden silence usually precipitated an explosion that shook the very walls of the castle. Her body tensed, she crouched in the shadows of the alcove and braced herself. But when her father spoke, though his voice trembled with barely controlled rage, he didn’t scream. He didn’t lash out. Shockingly, to her, he managed to keep his fury in check. It was something he never seemed able to do with Isolde.

“Get the men and find him,” her father said.

“How many men should I take, me laird?”

“All of them! Take as many men as ye bleedin’ need. Dae ye understand me?” he hissed, his voice crackling with rage. “Struan Cameron cannae be allowed tae escape. Find him!”

“Aye, me laird. It’ll be done.”

“See that it is.”

Isolde waited, listening to the sound of their boots ebbing before she moved. When the corridor sounded empty, she peeked around the corner just to be sure. Pulling her cloak around her a bit tighter, she slipped out of the chamber and made her way back through the castle once more. The sound of her father’s voice, a faint echo now, drifted down the corridor to her, sending a chill rushing up Isolde’s spine.

If she was really going to do this, it was time to go. If she waited any longer, she was undoubtedly going to be caught by the castle guard.

And if I was tae be caught, I would be returned tae me damned chamber, locked in and kept under guard as if I was a prisoner, nay different than Struan Cameron.

The muffled sound of thunder filtered through the stone castle walls, wrapping Isolde in a shroud of doubt and foreboding. It was as if God himself seemed to be trying to convince her to stay. Isolde shook her head. She’d stood on the ramparts earlier in the day and had seen the thick bank of clouds rolling in from the west. She had assumed they were going to be lashed with a storm either that evening or the following day.

The brittle sound of thunder was not surprising, but she couldn’t help but feel something threatening in it arriving at the very moment she was set to flee the castle grounds.

“’Tis nae a sign,” she muttered to herself. “’Tis only weather.”

She spoke the words to herself several times and with each repetition, tried to convince herself to believe them. Try as she might though, the feeling persisted.

“Dinnae be a bleedin’ fool,” she said to herself.

Forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other, Isolde shook herself out of the fear-induced stupor that gripped her. She made her way through the castle, sticking to the narrow side passages and corridors not regularly traveled by her father or his guards. Despite his orders to send everybody to pursue the fleeing captive, a detachment of soldiers had remained behind, likely to protect him in case this was all an ambush.

“Lady Isolde, what are ye daein’ out of yer chamber? ‘Tis nae safe fer ye.”

The voice echoed down the hall to her, freezing the blood in her veins. Isolde turned to see a pair of armed soldiers at the far end of the corridor, staring at her in confusion.

“Lady Isolde?”

She had to act fast. If they were to come closer, her plan of fleeing would go to ruins.

It is now or never.

Isolde swallowed her fear and threw the chamber door open slamming it roughly behind her. The locking bolt was weak and flimsy, but she threw it anyway. It might not hold for long, but it would hopefully buy her some time. As she rushed across the chamber, darting around the stacks of crates and barrels stored there, she heard the sound of heavy bootsteps in the corridor. The door shivered in its frame as the guards on the other side tried to open it.

“Lady Isolde,” one guard called, his voice muffled through the heavy oak door. “Open the door!”

Ignoring them, she threw aside the carpet in the corner of the chamber to reveal the trap door hidden underneath it. Isolde grabbed hold of the iron ring and strained to lift it. The door groaned and creaked, the rusty hinges squealing sharply as she pulled it open and it hit the floor behind the opening with a resounding crash. She quickly grabbed the oil lamp from the table she’d positioned there long ago, not actually believing she would ever use it.

“Lady Isolde!”

She nearly dropped the lamp when the bellowing voices of the guards were punctuated by the hard crash and shudder of the door as they attempted to break it down. A few seconds later the metal latch gave way with a sharp ping and the door came crashing inward, slamming into the wall behind it with a thunderous boom that sounded like cannon fire.

“Lady Isolde, what are ye daein’?”

Her eyes met his briefly and her heart quivered, her fear nearly overwhelming her. Her body told her to give up and let them escort her back to her bedchamber. That she was bound to the life her father had mapped out for her. But her mind roared one single thought that shook her from head to toe:

I need to run!

Isolde turned and descended the ancient, rickety ladder that creaked and groaned like it might give way at any moment. It would be a fitting end. To fall and break her leg while trying to escape. If that happened, she knew her father would chain her to her bed until her wedding day.

Fleeing from her father and his cruelty wasn’t Isolde’s only motive. She despised her soon-to-become husband, Laird Dougal MacPherson, as much. A cold, cruel man who was one of her father’s staunchest allies, and twice her age. Life as his bride would be even more unbearable than life as her father’s daughter.

Isolde made it to the ground without falling or breaking a bone. She said a silent word of thanks as she turned and ran. She knew this tunnel would take her underneath the curtain wall and to the back side of Moy Castle. If she could get there, she would be one step closer to freedom.

“Lady Isolde, ye need tae stop this bleedin’ foolishness and come back here,” the man’s voice echoed to her, as the sound of his boots on the ladder started growing closer.

Behind her, Isolde heard the sound of more voices. It sounded as if more men were coming, setting her heart ablaze. It was a matter of seconds till they’d started descending the ladder as well.

Her stomach clenched tight and fear threatening to overwhelm her, Isolde turned and plunged into the darkness of the subterranean corridor.

The sound of heavy boots thumping onto the hard packed dirt behind her sent a rush of adrenaline through her veins. It burned like fire and tears sprang to her eyes. She had to run faster.

“Lady Isolde, yer faither will nae be pleased with this nonsense,” the voice echoed from the shadows all around her.

She knew the ladder to the surface had to be approaching and desperate to slow her pursuers down any way she could, Isolde threw her oil lamp behind her. It hit the hard ground with the tinkling of glass shattering followed by a “whoomp” sound of the flames igniting the puddle of spilled oil. She risked a glance behind her and saw the flames jump, igniting the exposed roots. The corridor all around her flickered and danced with the fire, lighting up some of the shadows that plagued her.

It willnae hold them fer long, but it’ll slow them down fer now…

Her legs and lungs both burning, she ran into the darkness, chased by the shouted curses of the men behind her. The small grin of satisfaction on her lips was wiped away instantly when she crashed into the ladder with an impact that jarred her very bones. Gasping to recover the breath driven from her lungs, it was all she could do to keep on her feet.

She grabbed on to the ladder to keep herself upright and began making their way through the flames, she scrambled up the ladder. For the second time in minutes, her body exploded in pain as she ran her head into the trap door above her. Isolde’s teeth clacked together sharply, making her jaw ache as much as her shoulder.

“Bleedin’ hell,” she muttered.

With all the strength she could muster, she leaned her full weight into the trap door. With the hinges squealing in protest, it opened and she was greeted by a gold gust of wind and rain lashing her face. It startled her so much, she nearly lost her grip on the ladder. But she held tight and pushed her way through it, slipping out of the tunnel and into the open air beyond.

Isolde knew she had precious little time to lie there, so she let the trap door fall back into place with a hard thud and jumped to her feet. She took a long, deep breath and glanced behind her. Moy Castle stood like a dark sentinel.

Now that she was free, she had no idea where to go. She had never actually planned that far ahead, never truly believing she would ever be free. But there she was. Free. Picking a direction at random, Isolde turned and blindly plunged into the darkness, wind, and rain of the night, the rumble of thunder punctuating her every step.

Yet, everything was better than marrying the man chosen by her father.

Chapter Two

Her breathing ragged and every inch of her body screaming in pain, Isolde stopped and leaned against the wide trunk of a tree. She was cold, soaked to the bone, and exhausted. It felt like she’d been running for hours but when she turned back, she could still see the tall, imposing walls of Moy Castle in the distance, so she knew it hadn’t been that long.

The thick trunks of the trees and heavy foliage distorted sound, preventing her from pinpointing her location. And with the storm still raging overhead, it further obscured the sound of her flight. Unfortunately, the echo of the voices that reverberated through the forest also kept her from knowing how many men were actually out there.

Out to get me!

“Sounds like his whole bleedin’ army is out there,” she muttered.

“This way. I think she went this way!”

The man’s voice sounded close—too close. It sent a lightning bolt of fear crackling through her veins. Despite the protest of her muscles and lungs, Isolde turned and ran through the darkness, doing her best to move fast while trying to avoid rocks, exposed roots, or anything else that might trip her up. She was so close to freedom the last thing she wanted was to turn an ankle, or worse.

The whinny of a horse and a man’s grunt stopped her in her tracks. She ducked down behind a screen of bushes when the flicker of a torch cut through the darkness. The soldier was just on the other side of the thick foliage, making Isolde draw a sharp breath. Her heart hammered so hard in her breast, she feared he was going to hear it over the steady thrum of rain on the forest canopy overhead.

“Ye see her?” said the man.

“Nay. Nae yet,” came the voice of a second man she hadn’t seen.

“We need tae find her or Laird Mackintosh will have our heads.”

“Aye. Probably so,” said the second man. “But how? ‘Tis a lot of ground out here tae cover. The lass could be anywhere.”

“Dae ye think it matters tae the laird?” the first man said dryly. “He gave us orders and expects those orders tae be followed, whether they’re reasonable or nae.”

“’Tis nae a good night fer him. First Cameron and now his daughter. The man looked ready tae put his bleedin’ fist through the curtain wall.”

“Aye. But nae a good night fer him means ‘tis a worse night fer us.”

The man chuckled ruefully. “Aye. ‘Tis true. Come, let’s keep lookin’. The princess couldnae have gotten too far. She’s probably hidin’ among the trees. Let’s find her.”

As the hoofbeats of the horses receded, Isolde let out a long breath that came out in a thick plume of steam. She trembled wildly and not only from the cold.

That was close.

“They cannae catch me. I cannae let them take me back tae him,” she whispered, trying to encourage herself.

Pushing herself to her feet, Isolde ran in the opposite direction the soldiers had gone and stepped into a clearing. The flash of lightning bathed the world in a silvery luminescence brighter than the sun.

“Bleedin’ hell,” she groaned.

On the other side of the clearing were two of her father’s soldiers on horseback. The flash of lightning allowed her to see them—but it also allowed them to see her.

“She’s there!” the first man called as he pointed to her.

A sharp squeak burst from her mouth and as the two men spurred their horses, getting them racing across the clearing, Isolde turned and plunged back into the forest.

“Here! Here!” the soldier shouted. “She’s over here!”

She cut around the wide, thick trunk of a massive tree and risked a glance over her shoulder. She could see the bobbing light of a torch as the soldiers gave chase on foot, but they were well behind her. A small grin curled her lips as she weaved around a bush and all at once, she felt her stomach lurch. Her feet were somehow no longer on solid ground and Isolde felt weightless. She had but a moment to register that she had stepped off the steep incline of a creek bed she had not seen in the dark.

Isolde couldn’t stop the scream that burst from her mouth as she dropped like a stone. The impact with the side of the creek bed jarred her bones and drove the breath from her lungs. She tumbled down the embankment until she hit the frigid water with a loud splash. She ended up on her backside in a seated position in the soft, silty bottom. Isolde gasped, trying to catch her breath.

Before she could get to her feet, four of her father’s soldiers—two on either side of the creek bed—leaned over the edge. Their flickering torches glinted off the surface of the water around her. They all smiled down at her.

“There ye are,” said Merrick—a man she knew to be a captain of her father’s castle guard.

Tears of frustration spilled from the corners of her eyes as a powerful wave of fear washed over her. She clenched her jaw and tried to keep any more from falling. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

“Let me go,” she said, her voice calm and steady.

“I’m afraid we cannae dae that, Lady Isolde,” he answered. “Yer faither tasked us with bringin’ ye back tae Moy Castle.”

“Ye dinnae want tae dae this,” she said, putting a tone of menace into her voice. “I promise ye that I will make ye pay if ye dae this.”

The four men glanced at one another, then shared a laugh. Merrick turned back to her, his face etched with amusement.

“Nay offense intended, Lady Isolde, but we fear yer faither far more than we fear ye.”

Isolde got to her feet and glared at all of them in turn, marking their faces. She could see they did not take her seriously and thought she was little more than a joke, like her father. The fear in her breast dissolved and was quickly replaced by a dark rage.

The men were closing in on her though. No matter how hard she pushed herself, she wasn’t able to open a gap between them. She had no choice but to stand and fight.

Pulling one of the daggers she’d lifted from the armory from the sheath on her belt, she spun around quickly and slashed. The man who’d been reaching for her howled in agony as she opened a slice along the palm of his hand.

“Let’s nae have any more of this nonsense, Lady Isolde,” he said.

She slashed at him with her blade, trying to scare him off. But as the tip of her dagger whistled past his chin, he stepped inside her guard, grabbed her by the wrist, and gave it a twist. Isolde cried out in pain and the dagger fell from her grip, hitting the creek with a soft splash. The man behind Isolde grabbed her by the shoulders. She fought and thrashed to break free of their hands but they held her fast. Merrick frowned at her.

“Why are ye runnin’?” he asked. “The way I hear it, ye’re goin’ tae be marryin’ a rich man who’ll give ye everything ye could ever want.”

“Ye’d never understand,” she hissed.

“I tell ye this, lads, if I was told I had tae marry a rich, beautiful lass, wear silks and velvets every day and have servants and chambermaids tae tend tae me every need fer the rest of me life, I’d never complain once,” he said.

The men holding her laughed and grunted their agreement with their captain as Merrick bound her hands and hauled her out of the creek. Every step toward their horses felt like a step toward the gallows.

A movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention. She opened her mouth to say something but didn’t have the chance as the thick branches of the bushes parted with a loud rustle and something burst from them.

A man. A very large man.

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 Midsummer, 1310

Foulis Castle, Western Scotland

Annora Munro breathed in the glorious, heady scent of the scorched-pink damask roses growing beside the castle wall in her garden.

This was her favorite place of all, and today it was at its glorious best. Overhead, swallows glided and somersaulted, catching insects. Birdsong and the buzzing of bees filled the air and the sun beat down from a cloudless blue sky, covering everything with its bright golden mantle.

This was exactly the kind of day that had always soothed Annora’s spirit and made it sing with joy and delight.

But not today.

Today there was nothing that could shift the dark, cold, stone that had taken up residence in her belly. There was nothing that could lift her spirits or make her heart sing.

Annora’s shaking fingers scrunched her kerchief into a tight, damp ball. She sniffed away the last of her tears and brushed a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

Today her father, the Laird Graham Munro, had decreed that she was to be betrothed!

As she sat, contemplating her father’s betrayal, a soft voice called to her. She slowly rose to her feet as Bessie came stumbling along the path toward her. She had once been her nursemaid and was now her maid of sorts, although she was old and frail and slow.

“Lass,” she said, somewhat out of breath. “Yer faither awaits ye in the solar wi’ yer betrothed tae complete the reiteach fer yer formal betrothal.”

Annora snorted. “They hardly need me tae be present. Me faither and the Baron Sir Betram Radcliffe…” she all but spat the words, “will make their plans and their pacts well enough without me.”

Bessie looked alarmed. “But me sweet lady, yer husband wishes tae see ye and yer faither commands ye be present when the signing takes place.”

Annora remained in her seat, cold fingers creeping up her spine as she thought of the man she was to wed. He’d arrived with his retinue late the night before and had been welcomed into the great hall by her father and his men. They’d been unaware as they sat carousing, quaffing mead and ale and whisky, that she was peeping from the servants’ staircase, missing none of the proceedings.

The sight of the man her father had selected to be her groom sickened her.

To start with, she was certain he was old enough to be her grandfather. He had not stridden, but rather wobbled with a flimsy gait to his seat in the hall. White hair straggled in lank wisps over his thin, bowed shoulders. His fingers clutching his goblet were more akin to an eagle’s claws than to a man’s hands. His laughter was a mere hoarse cackle, his speech quavering and weak, while his legs in his trews were thin of thigh and scrawny.

The prospect of that man taking her to his bed left her weak with horror, her stomach tightening into a thousand painful knots.

But for all that, a grandfather could be kind. However, the English nobleman had a harsh face. It was creased and lined into a frowning, haughty appearance, his lips thin, downturned, not smiling, seemingly drawn in a perpetual sneer, while his beetling brows loomed over hooded, dark, eyes that were sharp and watchful, seeming to take everything in.

Instantly, she was afraid. Thats was not a man who would be kind. There would be no laughing or merriment in his great house. Cruelty was the word that sprang unbidden into her mind.

Annora shuddered at the recollection.

How could me faither bind me fer eternity tae such a creature? And all fer the sake of favors from the English King.

“Milady Annora,” Bessie urged. “Please come. If ye dinnae come wi’ me yer father will blame me and I’ll be punished fer yer recalcitrance. Ye ken he’s punished ye many times afore fer yer stubbornness. He’ll nae allow ye tae embarrass him before this English man.” She wrang her hands despairingly.

Annora reluctantly rose to her feet. She’d not see Bessie punished for what were her sins.

Heart-heavy, she followed the old maid along the path through the garden and into the keep. Once they were indoors, Bessie pulled her aside.

“Here.” She smoothed a scattering of wayward hair from Annora’s eyes and pushed it under her lace dap. Then she straightened the skirt of Annora’s fine linen kirtle and laced up her untidily undone shirt.

She took Annora’s hands. “Keep them hidden, lass, ye’ve half the garden there and yer nails are filthy.”

Annora shook her head, smiling grimly. “Mayhap he’ll refuse such an unwashed plebian lass and look elsewhere fer his allegiance with a Scots clan tae make his fortune.”

Bessie gave a short laugh. “I dinnae think yer looks are of any concern, lass, I think he’d wed a scarecrow if it meant he’d gain access tae the wealth and power of the Highlands.”

“Ah, Bessie,” Annora sighed. “I fear ‘tis I who is tae wed a scarecrow. A cruel man of straw who has a heart of stone.”

“He has great riches, they say, and a fine manor house by the sea.”

Annora shook her head. “I care naught fer his fine house and his land or his riches. I dinnae wish tae spend me days in England in the company of such a man.”

The old woman shook her head sadly.

“I had always hoped tae see ye wed tae a fine Scottish laird who would love ye wi’ all his heart and cosset ye in a fine castle where yer bairns would grow happy and well, protected by a warrior who cared fer naught but ye and his children.”

Tears sprang readily to Annora’s eyes. “I too, had once hoped fer that. But life has dealt me a different dice tae roll.” She took Bessie’s wrinkled hand with a soft touch. “Yet I’ll dae whatever I can tae escape this fate me faither is determined tae bind me tae.”

“Now, mind yer temper, milady. I wish ye well.”

As Annora neared the solar, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. She’d not let the man see her cowed and afraid, even though her heart was pounding so hard against her ribcage it was almost ready to fly out.

The door to the solar was ajar and when she tapped lightly on the heavy timber door a man she took to be a servant of Sir Bertram opened the door and bade her to enter.

Her father and Radcliffe were seated at the table at the center of the solar, with an assortment of parchments spread before them. Annora guessed these must be the contracts and deeds containing the complex terms of the reiteach that would seal her fate.

The two men rose as she walked across the room.

She noted the table had been dressed with their most detailed embroidered cloth, and two, elaborate, polished silver candelabra had been placed with lit candles at the center, casting a luxurious glow across the proceedings. Clearly, her father was at pains to impress the man he would have her wed.

Her father cast her a smile. “Thank ye, me dear, fer gracing us wi’ yer presence. It is me pleasure tae introduce ye tae the Baron Sir Bertram Radcliffe.”

She curtsied politely, and the Baron took her hand and raised it to his lips. She withheld a shiver at the cold hand and the even colder lips.

“Charmed, milady, of course.” He gestured for her to sit opposite while he took his seat beside her father.

The servant who had opened the door moments before stepped forward to draw her chair from the table and she sat.

On closer inspection the man she was to marry was even less appealing than he had been at a distance. Now she could see the pock-marked skin and the blackened teeth. She made an effort not to screw up her face as his rank odor flowed over her.

Instead, she forced a smile and folded her hands obediently in her lap.

Her father placed a sheaf of papers in front of her. Each page already bore the signature of two men. It seemed all that was required to finalize her purchase with a brief signature from her.

She looked at the pages before her wonderingly. All those words to seal the fate of one small woman.

Her father proffered a quill and a bottle of ink but she shook her head.

“I wish tae read what ye’ve decided fer me before put me name tae it.

Her father gave an impatient huff, but placed the quill on its stand beside the inkwell and folded his arms.

“Very well, but dinnae keep us waiting, Sir Bertram wishes tae rest afore the feast this evening.”

Sir Bertram nodded. “I am pleased to see the lady is able to read and write.” He glanced at her father. “That does, indeed, add greatly to her value.”

Annora gurgled in here throat at that, coughing slightly to cover the disgusted sound she made.

As she went over the contract, she saw that her father was to grant lien to Radcliffe over a great part of the Munro Clan lands, and in exchange Sir Bertram would ensure that Laird Graham Munro would be favored by the English Court.

The marriage of Annora and Sir Bertram would seal the arrangement, ensuring that both sides of the contract would abide by it. Once the deed was signed, she would officially belong to Sir Bertram with only the formality of the marriage ceremony itself to make their arrangement final and legal.

Annora’s stomach roiled. The reality of this was only now coming home to her. She was being traded with less regard than Graham Munro would have exchanged one of his prized cattle.

She took her time reading slowly, noting every passage and item of the contract. Finally, once she could stall no longer and her father was already red-faced and fuming, she took the quill and dipped it into the inkwell.

As her hand passed over the parchment a large drop of ink fell on the page, casing an enormous blot on the page.

The same servant who had been in attendance leaped forward with a linen cloth and absorbed the ink. Even so, it left a large, ill-formed blot that would forever mark the words underneath.

Mayhap in a court of law I could contest this contract on the basis that two words are partly obscured.

With that thought in mind, she signed, adding a great flourish to the letter A at the beginning and end of her name. She hoped to draw attention from the fact that she’d deliberately misspelled her name as ‘Anorra.’ She offered up a silent prayer that the day might come when she could challenge the signature and have the contract declared null and void.

Her misspelling went unnoticed. Sir Bertram’s servant hurriedly gathered the parchments and bundled them into a leather satchel he carried at his side.

Graham Munro subsided into his chair with a smile of genuine relief on his face. Annora watched him keenly. No doubt he’d expected at the very least, some form of protest from her, given how she’d raged at him for weeks at the prospect of this forced marriage.

Sir Bertram rose to his feet and bowed to her father. “Laird Munro, I am most grateful for your generous attention. I look forward to meeting you and your Council at the celebration this evening.”

Annora was left with a face burning red as he turned and made his exit from the solar without so much as another word to her.

Now the contract was secure, her father seemed almost mellow, despite a short while ago imprisoning her for days in the dungeon with only bread and water, until she’d agreed to sign.

But, for all that, she’d won one small concession.

Sir Bertram wished to sail south to return to England without delay, from the terrifying dangers posed by the Scots to an English ship. She’d refused to accompany him or to be rushed into a hasty ceremony without the banns being called. In the eyes of the Church, the marriage would not be lawful, and her pious refusal had been met with no objection.

Accordingly, she’d been granted a reprieve of several months. It was an elaborate plan, but one she had plotted carefully.

Once Radcliffe sailed, she would travel east to stay at Castle Tioram with her aunt and uncle. There, she would await a birlinn sent by Sir Bertram to carry her south. This would give the English priest the necessary time to broadcast the banns and she would be lawfully married as soon as she set foot on English soil.

But Annora would see to it that before she went aboard Sir Bertram’s ship, there would be many an opportunity to evade her captors and avoid the hateful marriage awaiting her.

Once Sir Bertram had left the solar, her father leaned across the table with a triumphant smile.

“I am pleased ye’ve seen reason and been a sensible lass. I am certain ye’ll enjoy yer new life in yer grand English house.”

She managed to paste on the sweet smile of a dutiful daughter. “Indeed, Da, I have come tae see that will be best fer me.”

“Taenight, we’ll enjoy the feasting tae celebrate yer good fortune, and tomorrow ye’ll make ready tae depart fer Castle Tioram tae await the arrival of the birlinn that will carry ye south.”

She smiled to herself as she followed her father out of the solar.

If her plans went awry and all that awaited her was a choice between Sir Bertram and death, then death it would be.

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

Chapter One

Sea of the Hebrides

Scotland, Spring 1311

Annora Munro was shivering, but it wasn’t the chill of the early spring breeze swirling up from Loch Moidart that was causing her to shake so. No, it was dread of the future that consumed her.

Today was the day she’d been living in fear of for the past two months, ever since her father, the Laird Graham Munro, had sent her here to Castle Tioram. The prison where she had been staying with her aunt and uncle awaiting the birlinn belonging to her betrothed.

Her time had run out, and she’d had no luck persuading her aunt or her husband, Laird Ranald, that she’d be happier there with them in the Highlands, than married to the ghastly old Englishman she’d been betrothed to against her will.

Aunt Beatrix shook her head when Annora begged to be allowed to remain at the castle.

“Dinnae be a foolish lass,” she had said, smiling grimly. “Baron de Radcliffe has a very grand castle, so I’ve been told by those who ken the place. He is an important man, lass, and ye’ll have a fine castle in yer charge.”

Ugh! The very thought of Baron Bertram de Radcliffe, his bony hands, cackling laugh and wrinkled visage made her queasy. She cared not a jot for his fine home and his favor with King Edward. But now word had come to Castle Tioram that her soon-to-be-husband’s birlinn was riding at anchor in the nearby cove awaiting her embarkation.

She pulled her fur-lined cloak close around her, raising the hood for extra warmth, covering her carefully braided coppery-hued tresses and hiding her face.

Blinking away hot tears she gazed around, taking one last look at the silvery waters of the loch and the far distant Castle Tioram, the forested hillsides, the pale pink morning sky and the seabirds wheeling overhead.

Her little party plodded on toward the sheltering cove where de Radcliffe’s birlinn awaited, ready to sail south to his castle near the coast of Cumberland. Every passing minute drew her closer to a fate she despised.

She considered putting her heels to her pony and attempting to outrun her two guards, leaving the big horse laden with panniers containing the gowns and items of her dowry, without a second’s regret.

An uncertain life here alone, despite the hardship that that would pose, was far preferable to becoming the possession of a man who cared nothing for her. Her stomach roiled. Her father had traded her like one of his prize breeding cows for the coin and allegiance offered by the Englishman.

In turn, de Radcliffe was gaining a toehold in the Highlands, where there was a great deal of opposition to the English King Edward.

She huffed quietly. The wretched, fearful man would not allow his birlinn to sail any further north for dread of it being attacked by what he’d called ‘Scottish barbarians’ and what she considered to be proud Scottish warriors. As a consequence, she’d been sent south to meet the birlinn to appease the man’s fear.

But then, as they began the descent to the cove, Annora spied two ships moored there. One was flying de Radcliffe’s flag alongside the English King’s standard, and the other had no flag she could make out.

Her heart jumped hard against her ribcage and she caught her breath. The two boats sitting at anchor were close beside one another. Mayhap she could find a way to board the wrong ship and from there flee.

She set to work formulating a plan.

When they arrived at the landing point, she pointed firmly at the ship with no flag.

“That is the ship I’m tae sail in.”

The older of her two guards tilted his head in the direction of the other ship.

“But mistress, the other one flies an English flag…”

She extracted a parchment from her satchel and waved it for him to see.

“It says here, “the ship has a band of red painted along the side. These are measures that have been taken fer yer safety. Ye are tae board the anonymous birlinn, fer if there are any possible attacks, they will be directed at the other vessel.” She pointed to the red marks on the along the larger birlinn as the man skeptically surveyed the side of the ship in question. Holding her breath, she handed him the parchment, counting on him not being able to read. It was a note from her aunt wishing her well for the journey and for her upcoming marriage to de Radcliffe.

The man peered at the parchment, nodding. “I beg yer pardon, me lady. Of course, I was mistaken.”

She blew out her breath as they dismounted. Once they’d loaded her panniers onto the waiting rowboat she stepped in and took her seat. They hauled the small craft into the water, jumped in and picked up the oars.

Given the early hour, no one was on deck of the other ship, and Annora thanked her lucky stars. The gods must have been on her side. It had been planned last minute that they arrive earlier than the English expected them to avoid problems with Scottish rebels who would have been alerted of the voyage, but she didn’t think it would go so smoothly. As her two men pulled their small craft alongside the birlinn a tall, gray-bearded man peered over the wooden hull.

“Who goes?”

The older of her two guards took off his cap and bowed from the waist, wobbling a little in the unsteady boat.

“We’ve the Lady Munro here tae sail wi’ ye. She’s tae be delivered safely tae yer master.”

Me God, what if he says he has nay idea who am I?

Thankfully, a smile lit the man’s lips as he looked her up and down. “Indeed,” he said, “The lady will please me master.”

A ripple of disquiet fled through her at his words, yet she pushed on, smiling bravely up at the stranger, who gestured to the rope ladder slung over the side.

“Aboard.”

With the assistance of her guards, she climbed the ladder and stepped onto the deck. The two sturdy men carried up her panniers and placed them beside her, as the stranger who had spoken earlier waved them aside and went to give his men orders to depart. With that, the guards, their duty done, scrambled back down the ladder and were soon rowing swiftly toward the shore.

She looked around expecting to the man she supposed was the captain to approach her, but could not find him. A sailor pulled up the ladder, the anchor was raised and the sails unfurled. Further along, at least twenty rowers took up their oars and within moments, even before the little boat carrying her guards reached the shore, the big birlinn was sailing out of the sheltering cove.

Keeping her head down as they passed de Radcliffe’s birlinn, she leaned over the side, fixing her eyes on the hazy, distant, horizon, hoping the queasiness would settle once they were well past the other ship and forging their way out to sea.

She stood, gripping the timber planking tight, her knuckles whitening, until gradually the nausea lifted, replaced by a wave of something like triumph at the success of her plan. She had escaped, despite the odds being against her.

Still, she remained watching until the Highland hills were nothing more than a small, dark, bump far beyond the ship’s wake.

Huddling against the chill Annora lined up her thoughts. She would ask the captain to set her ashore at their first landing. The small purse she had tied below her belt contained enough coins to pay for her passage and then some.

She would find work. She was adept at sewing and embroidery. She had made a point of spending time with the cook at Castle Tioram and had memorized enough recipes to feel confident if there was need for a cook. And she could read and write. There were many bairns whose parents would be glad their little ones could be taught these precious skills without having to spend years in a monastery or nunnery.

Feeling more hopeful, but growing colder by the minute, Annora hastened toward the prow where a cabin of sorts had been erected to speak to the captain and offer him her coin.

Hearing the murmur of voices inside she tapped on the door. Moments later she opened it and stepped inside.

The room was warmed by a brazier at its center, but dimly lit. She could just make out the figures of several lasses of similar age to herself or even younger, huddling on cushions close to the fire. The captain was nowhere to be found.

They all looked up as she walked in.

She waited by the door, uncertain of whether to join them.

A lass beckoned for her to sit on one of the plump cushions nearby. She moved in and lowered herself, grateful for the warmth.

The assembled young women greeted her with silence, staring at her through the gloom as if trying to make up their minds about her.

“Greetings,” she ventured, her throat suddenly dry. There was something about the scene that set her nerves on edge.

Who are these strange lasses?

Another of the group, whose long, fair hair reached over her shoulders and down her back almost to her waist, nodded to her and said “Have ye been captured, also?” The woman asked.

“Nay. I’ve nae been captured.”

An angry murmur rippled through the group.

“Did ye come aboard this cursed vessel of yer own free will?” the woman continued, her voice shrill with amazement. “Are ye intended fer the Sultan’s pleasure?”

The swirling sense of dread in Annora’s belly tightened into a painful knot. “The Sultan…?” she stammered.

“Nay. ‘Tis me intent tae ask yer captain tae place me on the shore at his next mooring.”

The woman threw back her head and laughed. “Ye’re mistaken. None of us may go ashore. Since we were stolen from our homes we’ve been kept here and have never seen the light of day. Ye’ll become a slave like the rest of us, why else would ye be on this ship?”

It was only then that Annora realized that each of the lasses was bound by a circlet of chains to the other. She gazed at them in horror.

“Ye are slaves?”

“Aye, bound in chains tae be taken tae the East tae satisfy the appetites of Sultan Osman, of the Ottomans. It seems he desires fair hair and blue eyes above all else.”

“And ye’ve all been…kidnapped?” Annora glanced around in horror.

“Aye.” The woman’s voice hardened. “I was ripped from me bed chamber and dragged tae the shore, where they clamped me in chains and forced me ontae the ship. All the lasses here share a similar tale.”

Once she was shackled like this there could be no escape.

“Who are these evil men?”

“Why, have ye nae heard of the Barbary Corsairs? They menace the coast, stealing us fer slaves.”

Annora’s heart plummeted. Somehow, she had to find a way to get away from that ship. For some reason they had not yet put her in chains, probably because they were busy setting sail and she posed no threat to them. But she knew she had very little time before they went looking for her. She stumbled to her feet clutching her cloak around her and made for the door.

Behind her she heard the woman’s laughter. “Ye’ll never escape except overboard tae feed the fishes.”

All Annora’s reason had fled. She had thought she was escaping a life enslaved to a husband she despised, yet here she’d found herself bound for an even worse fate.

This is far from luck!

Once she was outside the cabin, she leaned against the railing, breathing deeply, trying to steady herself while she vainly sought for a plan of escape. She knew, now, that her idea of being put ashore at the first port of call was in tatters. These men would never allow her to leave.

Peeking around the corner of the little structure she saw the man she recognized as the captain conferring with several other men further along the deck. She could see from their clothing that they were foreign. Each of them wore a turban wrapped on his head, their clothing was loose, and they had bare feet. Tucked into their wide cloth sashes were fierce-looking weapons like sharp, curved swords.

Annora drew back, hoping to remain unnoticed – at least until she could decide what her next move would be.

Looking around in desperation she found a small alcove where she could hide. She crawled inside and tucked her legs up, holding her cloak around her in an effort to keep out the biting wind. No doubt the captain would think she was with the other lasses and he’d pay her no attention as long as she was out of sight.

As the minutes passed, the ship kept up a brisk pace, the wind filling its sails, and Annora made up her mind that if they came close to land, she would slip overboard and attempt to swim to shore.

Even if she drowned it would be far better than giving in to what fate seemed to have in store for her.

It was approaching dusk and the sky was turning sunset gold when she dared to creep out of her hiding place and peer into the distance.

Squinting into the west her eyes made out the dark outline of hills against the setting sun.

This could only be the Isle of Skye.

Her heart was pounding, the blood roaring in her ears, as the ship drew ever closer to the shoreline.

Mayhap they intended to go ashore here in search of yet more captives.

She waited, hardly daring to breathe, as the coastline came into view. They were heading for a rocky cove directly ahead. She could make out at least two other vessels riding at anchor in the little bay. If they drew close enough, she could slip overboard and swim toward one of them.

Time seemed to stand still as the passing moments eked slowly by.

Before losing another second, Annora undid her cloak and removed the boots that would weigh her down, and crawled closer to the railing.

They were still in deep water but scarcely moving when she heard the splash as the anchor was lowered. If she was to have a hope of escaping, she had to act quickly, before the men left the ship and moved toward the shore.

She heaved up her skirt and petticoat and threw her legs over the railing, balancing on a small ledge as she prepared to throw herself into the sea.

To her horror she heard a cry go up followed by fast, heavy, footsteps along the deck heading in her direction.

I’ve been seen!

Sucking in a deep breath she struck out for the nearest ship, which, alas, seemed to be much further away than she’d first gauged. Through the sound of her own splashing, she heard shouts coming from the Corsairs’ vessel and realized that the men had followed her into the sea.

Having spent her childhood by the ocean she’d learned to swim at an early age. But this water was colder and unwelcoming, and despite her every effort, she did not swim with the slickness of a seal dressed as she was. She was floundering, her skirts tangling her legs, her arms losing strength with every stroke, and the men were gaining on her.

Drawing on strength she didn’t know she had, she kept herself moving through the water, straining her arms, frantically kicking her legs free of the restricting fabric, fighting with every last scrap to make it to the nearby vessel.

And then, wonder of wonders, she saw she was nearing the shore. A flicker of hope ignited, pushing her onward.

Yet the shouts grew louder. Her pursuers were almost upon her as she struggled for a foothold in the shifting sand beneath her feet. The waves, although small, rushed over her head, making her splutter, taking her breath away.

Before Annora could stabilize herself, a hand seized her arm in a grip as strong as a blacksmith’s vice. She screamed with every bit of breath still left in her lungs, struggling wildly against the man who held her fast.

He was dragging her back to the slave ship.

But even he was hard-pressed to manage her. As her heavy wool skirt dragged her down, his grip loosened and although she fought, bobbing up and then going under, her strength was ebbing fast. She succumbed to the water and the weight of her garments, and despite the hold on her arm, her head sank beneath the waves. She heard the man curse in a strange language, releasing her as the sea claimed her, pulling her into the depths.

Aware that the shore must be close, she made one last effort to kick her legs free, but it was no use, she was exhausted and the thought of drowning came almost as a blessed release.

Down she floated, her lungs filling with water, her eyes closed.

She was only dimly aware of the strong arms enfolding her body and the cold, crisp air on her face as she was pulled, gasping to the surface.

Again, a man was cursing, only this time it was in a language she understood. If she’d heard such blaspheming in her father’s castle, she would have flushed with heat and shame and hung her head, but now those forbidden words were the sweetest sound she’d ever heard.

He wrenched at her sodden skirts, ripping them away, so that her legs were finally released from the entanglement of fabric. Even in her half-drowned state, the touch of the man’s hand on her bare flesh rippled unaccountably through her, bringing a strange sense of embarrassment.

“Wrap your arms around me neck, lass. I’ll swim us tae shore. But be quick about it, if ye wish tae live.”

Chapter Two

Gulping in a desperate breath of air and coughing up a lungful of water, Annora grabbed the man’s shoulders as he swam strongly to the shore.

She marveled at the man’s strength and the way he’d come to her rescue without hesitation.

It was not far to the shore, but two men from the ship still pursued them.

The man’s feet touched bottom and he took a few steps until he was wading and the water was only up to his knees. Once they had made it to the shore, he lowered her and turned to meet the men scrambling on his heels, shouting fierce-sounding, unrecognizable, foreign words, brandishing their strange, curved swords.

Annora stumbled onto the rocky sand, coughing up water, spluttering mightily, rasping her throat. She curled on the sand, watching helplessly as the two assailants followed them onto the beach and circled her lone rescuer.

All that stood between her and an uncertain fate was this brave warrior.

One blow from those weapons could separate a man’s head from his body, yet her rescuer, a much bigger man than his lithe opponents, and with arms like tree-trunks, was every bit as nimble. While they might have evil-looking weapons, the man who had saved her drew a short-sword from his belt that was every bit as wicked.

The fight between the three men raged on before her as she crouched helplessly on the sand, her heart in her mouth, observing the battle. Praying silently, she shook all over, only too aware that her freedom – if not her very life – depended on this Scottish warrior’s strength and skill.

Still coughing, she closed her eyes briefly, too fearful to watch. At the sound of a piercing scream her eyes flew open to see one of the pirates falling, doubled over, his hands clutching his belly, blood pouring onto the sand. Her heart jumped. Now the odds had shifted in her rescuer’s favor. If only the man could prevail over his enemy, it was possible she would be saved.

Bent low, he circled his foe, and she was suddenly aware that this warrior was not only an imposing figure, but, despite the grim-set of his features, also darkly handsome. His nose was straight, his mouth generous and his jaw was chiseled marble. His wet hair slicked back displayed a broad forehead and dark brows.

His enemy whirled, his wet clothing spraying droplets of water through the air with the speed of his movement,

The painful knot in Annora’s belly tightened as her warrior—why dae I think of him as me warrior?— stumbled slightly, clearly put off by the sudden change of tactics. Yet, in a heartbeat he had miraculously regained his balance. The corsair raised his sword to deal a death blow, but the warrior moved with equal speed. The moment his foe raised his arms, he leaped forward and up, centering his sword so that it pierced the man above his belly, penetrating deep into his heart. The strike that would have ended the warrior’s life sliced his sleeve only a glancing blow. His opponent fell back, his mouth forming a silent ‘O’ of surprise. After landing with a thud on the sand, he lay prone at the water’s edge. He did not move again.

The Scot stood over his enemy until it seemed he was satisfied that the man was dead, then turned to Annora with a grim smile. In two strides he was crouched beside her brushing her hair back from her face.

“Thank ye…” she began, but her voice came out as an odd croaking sound. She shook her head and whispered hoarsely, “I cannae speak.”

He grinned. “Dinnae fash, lass. There’s time enough fer ye tae tell me yer tale. Fer now, we’d best be away from this place before more of the privateers come searching fer ye. Ye’re safe enough now, lass, yet they may still pursue ye. If ye wish tae accompany me, I’ll dae me best tae keep ye from harm.”

She nodded, unable to form the words.

He got to his feet and held out a hand to assist the still shaking Annora to stand.

She attempted to rise, but her legs had turned to liquid and simply crumpled beneath her, despite her best efforts.

With that, he sheathed his sword in its scabbard on his belt, hoisted her into his arms and, carrying her as if she weighed no more than a baby bird, strode across the rocky terrain toward a rutted track.

A sensation of disquiet rippled through her. The man who carried her was forceful and commanding and she was acutely aware of his strength and her own powerlessness. Had she escaped twice from enslavement only to become this man’s prisoner?

“I have lodgings further along, ye’ll be safe there. Tomorrow will be time enough tae decide on yer next move.” His tone was reassuring, yet she was not ready to trust another soul, despite the fight he’d made on her behalf. But her head was swimming and when she tried to speak, her throat felt as if it was stuck with a thousand sharp thorns.

Once they reached the rough track that served as a road leading away from the shore she managed to croak into his ear. “Ye may put me down, I believe the strength has returned tae me limbs and I can make me own way.”

She heard his soft chuckle, and then he lowered her, supporting her efforts to stand. It took a moment or two, but with determination she was able to move her legs and head along the path, keeping a hand on his arm to steady herself.

It was near dark as they progressed slowly along the path and there was no shouting in pursuit, only the soft cry of a nightbird and the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore. Annora began to believe they had successfully evaded her captors.

Finally, the inn came into view, a hanging lantern illuminating the sturdy entrance gate.

“Oh.” She gasped in dismay, stopping abruptly. Her legs were partly bare. All she was wearing was the tattered remnant of her kirtle overskirt and petticoat. Her heart skipping a beat, she felt around her waist and, to her everlasting relief she felt her little coin purse still tied there.

“I cannae be seen in such a state,” she wailed despairingly, as the full extent of her bare legs dawned.

Her rescuer remained unruffled. “Lass, ‘tis nay time fer foolish vanity, ye’ve come through an ordeal.” His lips quirked infuriatingly, although, in the dim light, it was difficult to make out his expression.

“Dinnae ye dare laugh at me.”

“Me apologies fer saving ye from drowning, lass. Would ye have preferred tae keep yer skirts and gone tae a watery grave fully clad instead?”

She issued a loud huff of indignation. “Of course nae.” She gritted her teeth and tossed her head.

“Well, then, dinnae say another word. I’ll see tae the landlord when we arrive.”

At the gate, he rang the bell, and then bent to scoop her into his arms, doing his best to keep the worst of her state of undress concealed by his loose shirt.

Somewhat mollified she wove an arm around his neck. The gate was opened by a burly, man with a shiny, bald, pate, a grizzled beard and a wide grin on his face.

He greeted them cheerfully and, paying little attention to the state she was in, he led them through a heavy oaken door.

He bowed from the waist. “Yer room is ready, milord, and yer men are already seated in the tavern enjoying our ale.” He gestured toward a room off to the side from where a rowdy sound of carousing could be heard.

“Thank ye. I’d be grateful if ye would show…,” he hesitated, glancing at Annora. “Show… er… me… wife tae the room.” The landlord raised an eyebrow as her rescuer lowered Annora to her feet at the foot of the staircase. She was grateful for the dim, concealing light.

Opening her mouth to protest at being designated ‘wife,’ she held her tongue when he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Of course, it made sense. If the men pursuing her should enquire – although she thought that unlikely – it was safest if she was believed to be his wife.

“Beg yer pardon, I didnae realize ye were travelling with yer… lady wife.” The landlord raised a brow.

“Ah, yes. We met with misadventures in our travels here.” He glanced in the direction of the noisy room to their left. “Did me crew nae mention the trouble we encountered with a privateer?”

Frowning, the landlord shook his head. “Ye’ve had a lucky escape by the looks of ye.” He gave a sympathetic tut-tut. “Those Barbary pirates are growing bolder by the day. Many of our fisherfolk’s daughters have been captured, and the rest of them have left the sea altogether fer fear of the corsairs. Those cursed blackguards have been raiding fer slaves up and down the coast and even across tae the Lordship of Ireland.”

“Aye. We’ve been lucky, indeed.” The warrior nodded and turned to Annora. “I’ll join ye in a few minutes, wife. I have business tae attend tae.” He took her hand and pressed it to his lips, looking for all the world like the very image of a concerned husband caring for his wife. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared through the door leading to the tavern.

Annora’s head was buzzing as she meekly followed the landlord up the stairs, too tired to ask any questions.

Warmed by a fire blazing merrily in the hearth, the room boasted one large bed which, to Annora’s tired eyes, looked supremely comfortable. It was spread with thickly quilted patchwork coverlets and plump pillows.

Wondering idly where the warrior intended to sleep, she could scarcely think beyond divesting herself of what was left of her salty, still-damp, clothing. It would be bliss to lay her head on one of those soft pillows and allow sleep to claim her.

She was still contemplating her next move when there was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” Her voice had moved beyond a croak but still rasped her throat.

“’Tis me again, yer landlord. I’ve brought ye some nourishment.”

She opened the door and the landlord entered, keeping his eyes averted from the bare legs she’d not been able to cover. He carried a trencher with broth and a scattering of bannocks, which he placed on the table, tugged on his forelock and hastened out of the room.

Discovering she was ravenous after all, having had naught tae eat since breaking her fast at Castle Tioram before sunup, Annora’s mouth watered at the aroma of the fragrant broth and the freshly baked bannocks.

Caring nothing for her undressed state, she made short work of the delicious chicken broth, soaking up the last of it with the fluffy, bannocks.

Then, without further ceremony she peeled off what was left of her damp garments, save for her chemise and, after tucking her little purse under her pillow, she snuffed out the candles, lay down on the bed and pulled up the coverlets with a contented sigh.

She was asleep before she had time to puzzle any further about the stranger who had saved her and brought her to this mysterious place, or to spare a thought to where she might go from there.

The sound of the door opening and banging shut jolted her into wakefulness. She groaned and rolled over, the light from a candle causing her to blink. Her heart stammered as she made out the tall, broad, figure of her rescuer standing by the fire, warming his hands.

“What are ye daeing here?” Indignant at this intrusion, she raised herself on the pillows, the coverlet clasped around her.

He chuckled softly, “Why, I’ve come fer me bed, wee wifey.”

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“My lady Francesca, your father has asked for you. He is in his salon.”

Francesca sighed and slumped back in her chair, dropping her book in her lap. Maria, her handmaiden, offered her a sympathetic smile and a gentle pat on the shoulder.

“Did he say what he wanted?” Francesca asked.

“I’m afraid he did not, my lady,” Maria answered. “He does seem rather excited and upbeat about something though.”

She frowned. Excited and upbeat were two things she would never associate with her father. His usual disposition was dour and angry, and he was often the most unpleasant man in the world to be around. The upsetting thing though, was he had not always been that way. When her mother had still been alive, she remembered that her father had been happy. He’d had a pleasant disposition, and she had enjoyed being in his company.

That had all changed when her mother had been killed. Scottish Highlanders had come down from the hills and raided the town she and her mother had been visiting the market in, and the only reason they were there that day was because Francesca had insisted they go. If not for her insistence, her mother would still be alive. It was not enough that she bore the guilt of that on her shoulders, but her father made sure she was reminded of it every single day, adding to the burden she carried.

She and her father had grown apart since the death of her mother. They were, in all truth, strangers living beneath the same roof. Most days, he could not bear to look at her or speak with her and when he did, it was to deliver cutting insults or barbs. His disdain for her couldn’t be clearer. And over time, she had developed a healthy contempt for him in return. Francesca did her level best to avoid her father, which was easy, for he did the same.

“Perhaps he has good news he would like to share?” Maria asked hopefully.

“Maybe. But somehow, I doubt it,” Francesca said.

What she didn’t let herself say though, was that good news for her father likely meant bad news for her. She couldn’t imagine, given how they had existed beneath the same roof for years now, that he would be doing something nice for her. Her mind spun with the myriad of possibilities and the dark tidings his summons meant for her.

“Let me help you dress, my lady.”

Francesca sighed as she got to her feet. Her father had summoned her, so there was no way out of it. The punishment for ignoring his call would undoubtedly be ten times worse than whatever it was he had to say to her. So, she allowed Maria to get her dressed and presentable for an audience with her father. He would expect her to be properly dressed in his presence, after all.

Maria finished tying her long, chestnut-colored hair into a tight braid that fell to the middle of her back, affixing it with a bow, then stepped back to scrutinize her work. Francesca smoothed out her skirts and straightened the laces of her bodice, then frowned at herself in the looking glass.

“You look lovely, as always,” Maria said.

“I do not feel that way.”

“Trust me, my lady, you are,” she said. “Go now. Do not keep your Lord Father waiting.”

Rather than incur his wrath for being slow to respond to his summons, Francesca thanked Maria for her assistance, then headed out of her chamber. She trudged through the halls, heading for her father’s salon. Though the journey was not a long one, Francesca felt as if she was slogging through miles of boggy land, every step heavy and forced. She finally rounded the corner and plodded down the hallway to the heavy wooden door that stood at the end.

“My lady,” said the guard beside it with a polite nod of his head.

“Thank you, Edward.”

He opened the door for her, then closed it behind her as she stepped inside. Francesca clasped her hands at her waist like a proper lady and stepped to the center of the room. Her father sat in a chair before the fire, a cup of wine in his hand as he read through the parchment he held in the other. A small smile curled the corners of her mouth, and he did indeed have a pleased expression on his face. It only deepened the sense of dread that gripped her.

“Good of you to join me, daughter,” he said. “I trust the journey to my salon was not too taxing?”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from launching the verbal fusillade that bubbled up in her throat. If there was one thing Francesca had learned, it was to pick her battles and this was one that need not be fought.

“I was told you would like to see me,” she said.

His cold blue eyes flicked to her, sending a river of ice flowing through Francesca’s veins. Though he might seem in good cheer, the way he looked at her reminded Francesca of just how volatile and just how cold he was behind it. He drained his cup and set it on the table beside him, then got to his feet, never taking his gaze off her.

Francesca’s father, Lord Ambrose Ainsworth, was a tall and imposing man. His golden hair bore silver threads, lending him a distinguished appearance. With sharp features, deep set eyes, and a prominent chin, he had the look of a scholar, but his broad shoulders and chest, and his thick arms spoke of his days as a warrior. He had been quite the accomplished swordsman, to hear him tell it.

Now though, his dress was as impeccable as his manners. He was polished and savvy, educated and intelligent. And though he could charm just about anybody if he had a mind to, Francesca’s father was cunning and cagey, with plans on top of plans. He was a political animal, always looking to better his station, increase his wealth, and accrue as much power as he could. He was shrewd, cold, and would stab anybody in the back if it benefited him.

Her father was so a cold a man, callous to the suffering of those around him, that Francesca often wondered if her memories of him as a kind, smiling man were false. Memories planted in her mind by a desire to think better of her father than he actually was. She liked to think he had been a good man who had changed and grown colder after the death of her mother, but she wondered if he had always been this way and she merely invented the man she’d thought he once was.

He brandished the parchment in his hand. “Do you know what this is, Daughter?”

“I do not, Father,” she replied.

His eyes narrowed and a feral grin curled his lips. “This is an official proposal of marriage.”

“I did not know you were courting anybody, Father.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could bite them back and her father’s icy blue eyes narrowed and grew colder. He had never slapped her before but the dark, tight anger on his face sent a ripple of fear through her heart that he might. As if forcing himself to stay his hand, her father turned and snatched up his cup before walking to the table on the far side of the room and refilling his wine.

“You test me, Daughter, but not even your wicked, impertinent little tongue will dull my mood today,” he said.

She cleared her throat and stiffened her spine. “May I ask who I am being forced to marry?”

“Laird Halvard MacLeod.”

“Laird?” she asked, gaping at him. “You’re marrying me to a Scot?”

“I am. The terms we agreed upon for your hand were too good to pass up.”

“Is this a jest, Father?”

“It is not,” he said. “My men will escort you to the town of Raasay, where you will board a ferry and make the crossing to Brochel Castle—your new home.”

“Father—”

“I will not hear what you have to say. This decision is not yours to make,” he snapped. “As your father, the decision is mine. And I have made it. You will leave a fortnight from now.”

Her father hated the Scots. He had hated them his entire life, and the death of her mother had only deepened and hardened that hatred. It was a bigotry he had passed on to her. She viewed the Scottish as unwashed, unclean, uncouth heathens. They were barbarians and she could not believe he had entered into negotiations with one for her hand. As cruel as he was, she could not believe it would run so deep that he would marry her to one. They had murdered her mother.

She tried to tame the wild churning in her heart and tamp down the waves of emotions that battered her. She knew her father’s tone of voice and knew arguing with him would not sway him. It would only anger him. He had resolved to marry her to this Scotsman and there was naught she could do to stop it.

“I trust you received a fair price for my hand,” she said, her tone bitter and acidic.

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “I did, Daughter. I did.”

Without another word and without his leave, Francesca turned and stormed out of his salon. She was halfway back to her chamber before she allowed herself the luxury of her tears. She choked back her sobs, trying to control herself. It was hard to do though, knowing her life was over, that she was being auctioned off to a savage. She slammed her chamber door behind her with all the strength she could muster. Francesca was certain her father had heard the thunderous boom of it slamming shut all the way in his study. She did not care.

Francesca sat on the edge of her bed, drawing deep breaths as she calmed herself and thought about what he’d said. He had told her he would be sending his men to escort her to Scotland, which meant he would not be accompanying her on the trip. And that realization sparked a flicker of hope in her breast as an idea began to form, an idea she had a fortnight to plan. As pieces started coming together, a small, tight smile curled the corners of her mouth.

She could not be forced to marry this Scotsman if she never arrived in Raasay.

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Chapter One

The borderlands of Mackenzie territory
Autumn, 1719

The carriage bounced hard along the rutted dirt road, jostling and shaking the very bones in Francesca’s body. The condition of the roads was just one more thing she hated about this accursed land.

How much she wanted to be at home, back in Northumberland! She missed it already. Her father’s manor house, near Hexham, was surrounded by some of the most stunning natural beauty the world had to offer. And even though she knew Scotland was beautiful, it was not the same. It was a place Francesca did not want to be. It was not and would never be her home.

Her father had tried to convince her the Isle of Raasay could be good for her, that she might build a wonderful life with Laird Halvard MacLeod in Brochel Castle. Not that he truly cared about what she might want for her life. And he certainly didn’t care about her happiness. All he cared about were the benefits he would reap from an alliance with a laird and clan as strong and powerful as Clan MacLeod.

She didn’t know much about this Laird MacLeod. All she knew was that they called him “the Savage”. In truth though, she thought of all Scots as savages. Francesca had no desire to marry in the first place. But the thought of marrying a Scot? That was even worse.

Francesca was unwilling to sit idly by while she was given over to a man she had no desire to marry. She had known that day was coming and she had formulated a plan to escape her fate—the fate that had been thrust upon her. She just had to be patient, wait for the right time. And as she looked out the window again, she knew that time had come.

Francesca’s stomach churned and her heart jumped into her throat. She reached into her bag and pulled out the small prayer book her beloved mother had given her when she was just a girl. It was written entirely in French—her mother’s native tongue—and was one of her most treasured items. She also pulled a velvet purse stuffed with coin she had been secretly collecting ever since she’d formulated her plan.

Francesca stuffed them both into the folds of her skirts and readied herself. She swallowed hard, trying to work some moisture into her mouth and tried to slow her racing heart. Her entire body trembling, she leaned out the window.

“We have to stop,” she said. “I need to relieve myself.”

The driver looked over his shoulder at her. “Nay stoppin’. Yer betrothed’s orders, miss.”

“We have been on the road for hours already. I really must relieve myself. I do not wish to arrive to my new husband with wet skirts,” she complained and blushed. She could not believe she was having such a conversation with a man.

A frown crossed the driver’s face. He turned and said something to the man on the driver’s bench beside him, but the sound of the horses and carriage was too loud for her to hear what they were saying. After an interminably long wait, the driver turned back to her, a frown etched into his features, clearly displeased.

“Fine,” he said.

The carriage slowed, then came to a stop. It listed heavily to the right as the driver climbed down. A moment later, the door opened, and he set a block of stairs down in front of it, offering Francesca his hand and helped her down. She took a moment to stretch her legs and back, using the opportunity to note the positions of the half dozen armed riders her betrothed had sent to accompany her on her journey to make sure she stayed in line.

“Ye need tae be quick about it, miss. We cannae delay too long,” the driver said.

Francesca turned and walked toward the bushes, her legs shaking so hard she thought they might give out beneath her. She was so focused on keeping herself upright that it wasn’t until she reached the screen of bushes beside the road that she realized she was not alone. She turned and noticed the driver had followed her. She glanced at him then back at the mounted soldiers who were looking with curiosity.

“What do you think you are doing, sir?” she asked.

“I am daeing me job,” he replied. “I was told tae keep a close eye—”

“I do not think that extends to watching me relieve myself.”

“Miss—”

“You will not watch me, sir,” she said. “I will report such boorish behavior to my fiancé, and I can guarantee you he will not be well pleased.”

Truthfully, Francesca didn’t think her soon-to-be husband would care all that much. But given the way the man’s face blanched and an expression of alarm crossed his face, she knew it was an effective threat. He cleared his throat and nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “But be quick about it. We still have a lot of ground to cover.”

Satisfied as she watched him take a few steps, Francesca turned away and slipped behind the thick foliage. She stared between the branches, trying to make sure nobody was watching her. The soldiers all seemed to be talking amongst themselves and weren’t looking her way. The driver had stepped over to the wagon and spoke with his partner. It was now or never.

“Please be quick, miss,” the driver called.

“Please stop rushing me,” she shouted back and heard the chuckle of the soldiers.

Francesca drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had to find a well of strength inside of her she’d never felt before. If she didn’t, she would be resigning herself to a fate worse than death.

“All right. It is time,” she whispered.

Summoning all her strength and courage, Francesca turned and sprinted deeper into the forest, running away from her carriage and retinue. She sprinted over the rocky, unstable ground, her legs burning as she tried to navigate her path without turning an ankle and falling. It would most certainly mean being clapped in irons and delivered to her betrothed trussed up like a Christmas goose.

And so, she ran. Dodging between the wide, thick trunks of the trees and around piles of stones, she scrambled up a small hill. She paused and leaned against a large boulder to catch her breath. But then a small, breathless squeal passed her lips when she heard the sound of pursuit. The voices of the men chasing her were growing louder. More strident. Her heart thundered in her chest. They were closing in.

Gulping down a long breath of air, she turned and ran again but the sound of the men was growing ever louder. She stumbled just as a pair of large, rough hands seized her from behind. She screamed and thrashed as she was hauled to her feet.

Francesca managed to break free of the man’s grasp and turned around, slapping him across the face as hard as she could. The man staggered to the side, stunned for a moment, but when she turned to run again, another man grabbed hold of her. Bigger and stronger than she was, he held her fast and no amount of writhing and thrashing seemed able to break his iron grip.

“Unhand me,” she howled.

“We were ordered tae deliver ye tae Laird MacLeod and that’s what we are going tae dae, lass,” the man said. “Now, stop fighting—”

The man loosened his grip just enough for her to squirm free. She delivered a powerful kick to his groin that dropped him to his knees, his hands over his crotch, a sickly look on his face. Francesca turned and sprinted away but was brought down again by the first man. They tussled and rolled in the leafy undergrowth as she tried to get out from beneath him.

“Stop moving!”

The man brought his fist down, driving it into her stomach. Francesca’s body exploded in pain, the breath stolen from her lungs in an instant. She wheezed and croaked, desperate to catch her air. The back of her throat was coated in acidic bile, and she felt like she was about to throw up.

“Ye werenae supposed tae hit her,” the second man said as he staggered to his feet.

“How else was I going tae get her tae stop moving?” the first man complained. “I had tae take the fight out of her.”

“They will have yer head fer this.”

“She’s fine,” he snapped. “Where are the others?”

“They scattered in all directions looking fer her,” he said. “They’ll be along. We just need tae get her back to the carriage and get her in irons.”

“Gladly.”

The man who’d hit her hauled Francesca to her feet then picked her up like a sack of laundry and slung her over his shoulder. As the two men carried her back to the carriage, tears streamed down her face. She’d failed. Damn them! And my father and this ridiculous arrangement!

“What’s all this about then, eh?”

The sound of the man’s voice drew her attention and Francesca raised her head. Standing in the middle of the path back to the carriage was a tall, broad man. Long, dark hair that hung loose about his shoulders and stormy gray eyes that burned with intensity. The strong jawline and hard planes of his face gave him a stern, weathered appearance.

Dressed in black breeches, a black tunic with a wolf’s head emblazoned upon it, and black boots, the man was ruggedly handsome, a Scot by his accent. And there was a wild, untamed energy about him. As she looked at the stranger, Francesca felt her heart leap into her throat. Having lived her life despising the Scots, she was taken aback, never believing she could find a Scotsman so… alluring, so captivating. She gave herself a shake, trying to push it away, but the thoughts persisted.

“Out of the way, stranger. We’ve got nay quarrel with ye,” said the man carrying her.

“The lady daesnae look like she wants tae go with ye.”

“Ye should be mindin’ yer own business, lad. This has naethin’ tae dae with ye.”

The man pursed his lips, his eyes narrowed and burning as he stared them down, and when his gaze flickered over Francesca, she felt her cheeks turn crimson.

With sinful eyes like his even the devil would blush…

“Nay. I think ye should put her down and be on yer way.”

“We dinnae want trouble with ye. We’re just daeing our job.”

“Job’s over. Put her down and go on yer way,” the man said. “Dinnae dae as I say and both of ye will die here in this forest.”

“Last warning.”

The Highlander smirked as he began to unsheathe his sword. “So be it.”

Chapter Two

Francesca watched in horror as the big Scotsman approached the soldiers who’d been dragging her away. Part of her was terrified of the fight to come. The stranger had put himself in harm’s way for her and she had no desire to see him hurt. Or worse. She sat stone still, her mind telling her to get up and run while the men were distracted, but her body would not obey her commands.

With roars of rage, the two men rushed in from either side of the stranger, swords up and ready. The Scotsman grinned as he nimbly leapt backward, leaving them swinging at empty air.

“Ye’re goin’ tae have tae dae better than that if ye want tae get one over me, lads.”

Their faces twisted with fury, they rushed in again, one swinging his sword from high, the other cutting up from a lower angle. Francesca winced, fearing he was going to be cut in half, but he laughed as he danced to the side, leaving them once again swinging at air.

He is toying with them.

The man who’d been carrying her charged at the Scotsman, the point of his blade leading the way. But he knocked the soldier’s blade aside with a quick swipe then spun and found himself directly in the path of the other oncoming man. The soldier swung his sword, his blade slicing through the air in a murderous arc, but the stranger got his blade up in time to block it.

“Bleedin’ bastard,” the first soldier cried.

The pair of soldiers both came at him again, their faces determined, anger burning in their eyes.

As they closed in on him again, their blades silver flashes through the air, the stranger dropped and shoulder rolled, coming up behind them. He thrust with his blade, driving it through the first man’s back. His shriek of agony echoed through the forest, sending a flock of birds nesting in a nearby tree to flight in a flurry of squawks.

The second man wheeled around just as the stranger wrenched his blade free. The first man dropped to the forest floor with a hard thud and was still. The man’s jaw was clenched, and his eyes were narrow, burning with hatred.

“Ye are going tae die, ye bleedin’ bastard,” he hissed.

“Dae ye want me tae fight on one leg?” the big Scot mocked them. “Or perhaps I can put on a blindfold if it’d make it fairer, eh?”

Francesca watched in rapt fascination, her heart racing. For such a large man, he moved very gracefully. He was like a dancer who floated on the wind, his every movement elegant and horrifyingly beautiful in its deadly efficiency. She saw his muscles ripple as he slid from side to side, spinning and twirling with lethal intent. She should be terrified. She should be running in the opposite direction to escape the battle, but Francesca could do nothing but sit and watch him. Mesmerized.

The soldier howled in outrage as he rushed forward. The stranger waited until the man closed in and went to work with his blade. He hacked and slashed, his blade a dizzying flash of silver the soldier was having a hard time keeping up with. Sweat poured down his face and he grunted with the effort, parrying and thrusting in a desperate frenzy to kill his rival. As they battled, movement from the corner of Francesca’s eye drew her attention and her heart fell into her stomach as another armed soldier rushed in.

“Behind you!” she screamed.

With a powerful slash, he drove both men back, giving him a little bit of space, but the newcomer charged him. He drove the young man’s blade up then drove his fist into his face. The man’s head snapped back, sending a spray of blood high into the air. The young man fell on his back, eyes closed, out cold.

The second man came charging in and the Scot darted aside and Francesca gasped as the tip of the man’s blade narrowly missed his ribs. But he grabbed hold of the soldier’s wrist and using his momentum against him, spun him around. With one fluid movement, the Scot drove this sword into the man’s stomach. The soldier grunted and his body grew rigid.

The stranger stared into the man’s eyes, watching the light of his life flickering out. Yanking his blade from the man’s body, he let it topple over and cleaned his blade off on his cloak then turned to Francesca.

“How many more are out there?” he asked.

“I—I don’t know. There were six in my retinue, two drivers, and five, I think, who went on to scout the way ahead,” she said, shaking her head. “I think. I can’t be sure.”

“All right then,” he said. “We need tae get out of here.”

“I cannot go anywhere with you,” Francesca said, sounding as offended as she looked by his suggestion. “I do not even know you, sir.”

The Scotsman shrugged. “All right. Then ye can wait here fer the rest of the soldiers tae come back and maybe ye can explain how two of their own wound up dead then, eh?”

She gasped, her face blanching as she stared at him. But she said nothing. And she remained seated on the ground where the soldiers had first dropped her.

“From what I saw, ye didnae want tae go with these men,” he said. “Dae ye think when the rest of their men arrive, they’ll take ye where ye want tae go? Or dae ye think it more likely they’ll take ye where ye were fightin’ so hard nae tae go, eh?”

She shook her head. “Where did you come from?”

“These are me woods,” he said. “So, what dae ye want tae dae? Go with me? Or stay and wait fer the rest of the soldiers to arrive?”

Francesca gaped at him, upset at his impertinence, and said nothing for several long moments. The man finally shrugged.

“Well, good luck tae ye then, lass,” he said.

He turned and started to walk away. Francesca’s belly churned as fear gripped her heart. She quickly scrambled to her feet.

“Wait,” she called.

He slowed his pace but did not stop and walked on. She fell into step beside him, her expression angry and resentful.

“What’s yer name, lass?” he asked.

“That is none of your business, sir.”

“I saved yer life. Daesnae that entitle me tae at least ken yer name?” He said as he threw her an assessing glance over his shoulder that made her blush.

“No. It entitles you to nothing.”

“I’m riskin’ me life takin’ ye tae safety—”

“It entitles you to nothing but my thanks,” she cut him off feeling surprisingly flushed despite the chill in the air. “So, thank you.”

“All right, lass,” he said. “Have it yer way then.”

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