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The Priory, Isle of Iona

August, 1310
 

Lyra MacInnes sat hunched over the writing table in the warming room. Her fingers were almost blue, but the fire in the hearth never went out, providing the nuns a little respite from the terrible cold Hebridean weather. Summer was scarcely behind them but the chill was always in the air.

She sighed, finding it difficult to put into words what she had to say. Lying did not sit well with her, especially when she was telling untruths to her dearest and oldest friend Davina. But if she confessed the truth, she knew her friend would risk danger, if she still believed Lyra to be desperate to leave the Priory on the Isle of Iona.

She had resided there with the nuns since she’d been scarcely more than a child. The terrible murder of her father in cold blood had meant there was a need for her to be hidden in order for her to remain safe.

Yet, all these years at the Priory had not been a hardship. She had felt an affinity with the contemplative life of the nuns even though, as an oblate, she would never take her vows and become a Bride of Christ.

Even at the age of twelve she’d experienced a sense that she was a mere pawn, subject to the whims of powerful men. To them she was only of value because of her noble birth and the fact she was set to inherit the extensive lands owned by hercClan. There’d been talk of a betrothal but her father’s murder had put paid to that.

While it was his death that had led to her being hidden in Iona, it was keeping the secret of her identity that assured her safety. Despite the closeness she shared with Davina, it had been imperative she remain silent, hiding all knowledge of her past.

There had been many occasions she had wished she could tell her story with honesty. Even now, she wished it. But the time was not right and this letter to her friend had become necessary.

Finally, after blowing onto her cold fingers and warming them enough to be able to write with a steady hand, she smoothed the parchment and dipped her quill in the ink.

Me dearest Davina,

I trust this missive finds ye well and happy. I too have fled the rigors of the Priory as ye did, just as ye and I once discussed.”

She paused, dipping her pen again. As she returned it to the parchment, a large black blot of ink fell on the note and spread. She shrugged. Parchment was scarce and she had only been allowed one sheet of the precious material. The blemish would remain.

Mayhap it was an omen. A dark blot on the misleading words she was sending to her friend.

She pulled her woolen robes around her, and secured her cloak tighter. The night was long and the cold had sunk deep in her bones despite the flames blazing in the hearth.

After Davina had fled the Priory, Lyra had been sorely afraid her friend would fret if she did not hear that she, too, had escaped as she’d pledged to do.

While she’d aided Davina’s escape, praying that her friend had made it safely across to the Isle of Mull and beyond, the nunnery was her sanctuary and she had no inclination to venture beyond what she knew.

When she’d been brought there soon after her beloved father’s death, she’d been told it was to keep her safe, as there were those who would take her as a betrothed for one simple reason. As the sole heir to her father, she had inherited the castle and all the clan lands.

She had been warned there was at least one ruthless and cruel man who would stop at nothing to seize her, force her into marriage to steal her inheritance.

Remaining locked away from the world was a small price to pay for escaping a man who would use her as a tool to furnish his greed

Returning to her letter, she dipped the quill again.

I am so happy to have escaped the convent as ye did, me dear friend. There is nae need fer ye tae return, as ye promised, tae help set me free.”

She had been happy to assist Davina to escape, as she knew her friend suffered mightily at the hands of the old Prioress, who, for some reason which she could never fathom, had held a strange and cruel hatred for her friend.

Since Mother Una had taken on the role of Prioress, life there had become much easier, although she understood that it was imperative to keep a close watch on Lyra’s safety. The threat had never lessened, despite the passing years.

She bent her head again, scratching out lies. Her letter would keep her friend believing she was no longer at the nunnery, but had made her way safely to the mainland and her own people.

I will write again, me dearest, sweet Davina, and when the time is right for us tae meet again, I will send word.

She took care not to mention where exactly she now resided, musing that Davina would assume she was safely reunited with her clan.

A sigh escaped her lips. She had scant memories of her life before and she had no wish to return to it. Her life was at the Priory, where she believed she was safe from the predatory machinations of any man who wished to own her.

She felt no envy for Davina’s new life, whatever it might be, only pleasure at her friend’s newfound happiness. The letter Lyra had recently received had merely hinted at the many misadventures and dangers Davina had endured, but with the assurance she was happier than she had ever dreamed possible.

Mayhap one day she and Davina would meet again and Lyra would hear every tiny detail of what had become of her when she fled the Priory.

Yet, for all that, when the one letter she’d received closed with the words “I will come tae Iona and help ye escape if ye are still biding there,” the danger that Davina unknowingly posed to both lasses struck home.

If it became known that Davina was venturing to Iona seeking Lyra, not only would her friend court danger for herself, but she would risk bringing grave danger to all at the nunnery.

Lyra finished her note.

Until the happy day when we meet again, I shall wish ye good night and good morrow, from yer loving friend. Lyra

Her eyes misted with tears as she took a piece of dark blue sealing wax, heated it over the candle allowing it to drip upon the folded parchment, ensuring it was closed from prying eyes. She set her ring upon the molten wax so that Davina would recognize the seal and know the missive came from Lyra.

She bowed her head, signing the Cross, offering up a silent prayer for forgiveness for the lie she was telling her fried.

The following day, she would ask permission to send the letter, and it would be taken to the village by one of the servants, from there to begin its long journey across the sea to Kiessimul Castle, on the Isle of Barra, where her friend now resided.

A tiny part of her wished she could make the same journey, yet she would remain here, on Iona, exiled from her clan, until she was safe from the dark evil of the Laird Alexander MacDougall.

 

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Chapter One

Scotland 1310, the Isle of Iona

Lyra MacInnes eyed the evening repast laid before her on the sturdy oak table in the refectory at the Iona Priory. She sighed rather too loudly. “Fish again.”

Sister Morag, the elderly nun seated opposite tilted her head disapprovingly.

“We must be thankful fer what the Good Lord provides, Lyra.”

Both Lyra and Sister Morag dipped their heads, signing the Cross, before picking up their spoons.

Lyra hesitated, her appetite having fled at the sight of the watery stew, but the Sister spooned in a large mouthful.

Giving her meal a desultory glance Lyra downed her spoon. “I’m nae hungry this evening,” she said, although adding hastily, “but I am indeed grateful.”

Glancing up, her heart skipped a beat as she took in the sight of the old nun’s face. It was crumpled into an expression of pain, her mouth hung open, her eyes rolling in her head. She clutched her belly and doubled over, making a truly awful, gurgling sound.

Lyra leapt to her feet. By now the nun’s mouth was ringed with froth. It was clear that something very bad was happening.

“What is wrong, Morag? Are ye in pain?” Looking around helplessly for someone to come to Morag’s aid, Lyra screamed and the other nuns looked up in horror at the unfolding scene.

Suddenly, Morag let out a terrible groan, closed her eyes and sank slowly forward so that her head was on the table next to her platter, while her arms sagged by her side. Lyra grabbed one of the Sister’s icy-cold hands to prevent her from slipping to the floor.

Fortunately, at that moment Mother Una darted across the refectory, followed by the two nuns in charge of the infirmary.

“Quickly,” Lyra cried, holding Morag’s slumped figure to prevent her toppling onto the stone floor. “She’s taken ill.”

The Prioress rushed to Lyra’s side and snatched her dish away while the other two nuns took charge of Sister Morag.

After only a brief moment one of the nuns, Sister Fiona, looked up, her jaw tight, her shoulders hunched. “Dinnae eat anything. We must make haste. She appears tae have been poisoned.”

Mother Una turned an anguished face to Lyra. “Lyra, I fear yer enemy has found ye. Ye must away from here with all speed.” She grabbed Lyra’s hand. “Come. Leave the sisters tae care fer Morag. Purging is the only cure and it is nay something fit fer a fine-born lady such as yerself tae witness. Follow me now tae gather yer things and prepare wi’ all haste tae travel from this place.”

Without another word Lyra picked up the ends of her robe and dashed through the arched doorway following Mother Una along the stone walkway and up the stairs to her small sleeping space.

Her mind raced, blaming herself for what had befallen Sister Morag. The possibility that, even here, her enemy would find her, was never far from her mind and it seemed that, tonight, he had discovered her at last. Gentle Sister Morag had paid the price for protecting her.

That knowledge pierced her heart. The necessity for secrecy had been so great she had even lied to her dearest friend, Davina, who thankfully no longer lived in the priory. She had pretended to be a novice, unhappy under the stern guidance of the Prioress just as Davina had been. She had hidden the truth that she was an oblate of Saint Augustine secreted in the Priory since childhood in an effort to protect her.

As continuing to lie to her friend would have been too difficult, after Davina had escaped, she had sent her a letter to convince her she had left the Priory and was returning to her family. As long as Davina believed Lyra was safe, she would not put herself at risk by attempting to aid her escape.

As she was lost in thought Mother Una went to speak briefly to a man that worked in the gardens of the convent and then she was back by her side. “I must assume the poison was meant fer ye. We can be thankful it was nae intended tae claim yer life, or Sister Morag would have left this mortal realm by now.” She crossed herself with shaky hands.

She met Lyra’s gaze with troubled eyes. “Ye cannae waste another minute. ‘Tis time ye left us, now it is nay longer safe here.”

“Where am I tae go? What am I tae dae?” Lyra’s voice was husky with unshed tears.

“Gather yer belongings without delay, including the things that were brought here with ye fer safekeeping. The box wi’ yer maither’s brooch and necklace. Now that they ken where ye bide, neither yerself nor the others here under the Priory roof are safe from harm.” She busied herself, rolling a change of clothing into a small bundle “Ye ken the plan, they will expect ye on Mull.”

Lyra grabbed the small box containing her few treasures. Her heart was thumping and her mouth was dry. She licked her lips. She’d been with the nuns since she was little more than a bairn and all she knew was the nunnery. The thought of braving the unknown, outside world was almost as terrifying as being taken by her enemies.

“How am I tae find me way? I dinnae remember the Isle of Mull or the mainland. What if the lad I’m tae meet wi’ isnae there?”

Mother Una grew impatient. “’Tis nae time tae argue. If ye’re dead ye’ll nae be of use tae anyone.”

Lyra’s eyes misted and she bit back the threatening tears.

The Prioress’s voice softened and she reached a kindly hand to squeeze Lyra’s arm.

“I dinnae wish tae speak harshly tae ye lass, but if ye dinnae make haste to be out of here as soon as ye can, we’ll have little choice.” She raised her eyes to the sky. “It grows dark and ye’ll be able tae make yer way across tae the Isle of Mull under cover of night. I’ve sent one of our garden workers tae the shore tae find a fisherman tae row ye across.”

She turned to go. “I must check on Sister Morag. Dinnae waste time. I will see ye at the gate before ye leave. Dinnae fash. Ye will be just fine and everything will go according tae plan.” With that she darted off.

The clothes Mother Una had bundled for her to take were strange and unfamiliar. She was used to wearing only nun’s clothing consisting of a loose, woolen, black robe, which covered her from head to toe, with the veils and coverings of a nun. She swayed and clutched the bedpost to keep herself upright. This was the only home she was familiar with.

Florie, one of the younger novices, braided her fair hair before concealing it under the plain white veil. Lyra was reaching for her cloak when she heard raised voices and a terrible sound of splintering timber. This was followed by a series of piercing screams.

Heart hammering, she raced down the stairs and along the passageway, her cloak in her hands, with Florie close behind carrying her bundle and the carved wooden box containing her few treasures.

Sister Fiona came hurtling toward her, her robes and veil flying, a stream of blood coursing down her face from a cut on her cheek.

“Dinnae venture out there,” she said breathlessly. “There’s men… four of them. They are brutes. They’ve smashed their way through our heavy gate and are, even now, confronting Maither Una.”

Lyra’s hand flew to her mouth, while Florie tucked herself close behind her. “What dae they want?”

“They’ve named ye, Lyra, and they say they are tae take ye away.”

There was another stifled shriek and a second nun came tearing along the corridor towards them. “Quick, make haste, ye must come tae the other gate and make yer escape afore the men find ye here.”

“What of Maither Una?”

The nun groaned. “I am afeared fer her, Lyra. They have her arms pinned behind her back and are threatening her if she daesnae take them tae ye.” Her eyes widened in horror. “Already one of the brutes has slapped her and threatens worse.”

“Who are these men who are prepared tae violate this sacred place? Nay good, self-respecting Scottish warrior would dae such a thing.”

“I dinnae ken.” Sister Fiona shook her head. “They are dressed all in dun with darker britches and cloaks. They’ve nay plaid tae identify them.” She glanced at Lyra. “I dinnae wish tae afear ye, but they have the look of rough Gallowglass fighters. Soldiers for hire. Dangerous men with nay allegiance.”

Lyra hauled in a deep breath and let it flow out slowly, attempting to steady herself. She squared her shoulders. Although she was trembling all over, she held her head up and raced forward with Florie at her heels.

She was met with a horrifying scene when she arrived, breathless, at the entrance to the Priory. The large, studded, oaken gate had almost been torn from its iron and much of it lay in splinters beside the wall. Beside it, in a bloody heap, lay the bodies of the two men whose job it was to keep guard over the entrance to the Priory.

Mother Una stood stoically in the center of the stone-paved vestibule, a purple bruise already forming on her face where she’d been struck. Even so, she held herself straight, eyeing the four men down the length of her nose, a look of pure disdain etched on here proud features.

Florie squealed and dropped the bundle and the carved box she’d been carrying, turned on her heel and dashed back the way they’d come, leaving Lyra and Mother Una to face the men.

The Prioress swiveled as Lyra entered, her eyes widened and her teeth clamped her lower lip as if to hold in the words she wished to speak. She gave an all but imperceptible nod, darting her eyes toward the men.

Terrified, Lyra pressed forward despite the clear warning, praying she could divert the men’s attention from Mother Una.

Mother Una screamed. “Run, Lyra, dinnae let these brutes take ye.”

The men exchanged glances and one of the ruffians stepped forward, a grin on his coarse features half obscured by a shaggy, red, beard. He licked his lips. “If ye’re Lyra, ye’re tae come wi’ us.”

Lyra swiveled and made a frantic dash for the passageway, Red-Beard striding after her. She shrieked helplessly as he seized her arm in his rough grip.

He grunted a laugh and turned to the other three men who were standing by, grinning. “We’ll have some fun wi’ this one. She’s a right beauty.”

He turned back to Lyra, his eyes raking her with a hungry expression.

She shook her head summoning every scrap of courage she could. “I’ll nae travel wi’ ye. This is me home and I’ll nae leave it.”

The man merely laughed. He stepped forward and with what seemed like one movement of his giant hand, slapped Mother Una hard across her face, tightening his iron grip on Lyra’s arm.

Lyra struggled, raking Red-Beard’s arm with the sharp nails of her free hand. This seemed to amuse him even more and he grabbed her with his two hands and cruelly yanked her arms behind her back.

She bit down hard on her lower lip to prevent herself from crying out. There was no way she would give these savages the satisfaction of seeing her fear and pain.

“Ye’ll come wi’ us. Make it easy. Dinnae resist.”

Lyra pshawed loudly. “I willnae go wi’ the likes of ye.”

He rasped a laugh. “Good. Ye’re a feisty one. I enjoy holding a struggling lass. There’s more pleasure in it fer me.”

At that moment Lyra’s furious rage overcame the fear and trepidation that was almost too much to bear, and with blood running hot in her veins she spat a response at the barbarian.

“Dinnae touch me, ye son-of-a-low-worm. Ye smell rank as a fox’s den and ye look like… like…” She was almost lost for words. With his shaggy hair and his dirty red beard, she could only conjure the image of a Highland cow. But they were animals she was fond of.

“Ye’ve the appearance of a moldy bale of hay.” She gave a satisfied snort having found the image she sought.

“Enough.” The man gave her arms an extra twist upward. This time she couldn’t suppress her cry of pain as he dragged her toward the ruined gate. While she struggled, he simply slapped at her as if she was nothing more than a troublesome midge.

As he pushed her through the entrance, she writhed violently against the man whose grip never loosened.

“Let me go, ye piece of filth,” she yelled, to no avail. She resolved to say nothing more, as it was clear her struggles amused him.

The other three men gathered around, each of them leering at her and licking their lips in a manner that disgusted her. One of them reached a hand and pawed at her breasts through the fabric of her tunic and kirtle, causing her to shriek loudly.

With that, Red-Beard hoisted her in his arms as if she was nothing more than a sack of barley, and flung her over his shoulder.

She beat helplessly with her boots to his chest and her fists to his back, despairing that these men were taking her to an uncertain fate.

And then a sudden shout caught her by surprise. “Put down the lass,” came a deep, commanding voice. “Have ye ruffians nay ears tae hear what she says. She daesnae want tae go wi’ ye.”

Chapter Two

Cursing loudly, the man who was holding Lyra on his shoulder broke his stride. He flung her to the ground and reached for the axe he carried in his belt, while she struggled to her feet, her heart pounding.

“And who d’ye think ye are?” He snarled as two men strode forward and faced Red-beard and his men, preventing them from passing.

“We’re the men who will prevent yer kidnapping plan. Mayhap ye’ll ne’er find out who we are.” The man who spoke was as tall as Red-beard and almost as broad, but rather than the appearance of a shaggy beast, he was clad in a great kilt of fine woolen twill woven in a red and green plaid. His hair, black as a raven’s wing, reached his shoulders, and his eyes, shooting fire at Red-beard, were the gray-blue of a stormy sea. There was something about the man that drew Lyra’s attention, yet at the same time, his fierceness filled her with trepidation. One thing was certain – he was a handsome man, captivating in his brutality.

Each of the newcomers drew their claymore, hefting them in strong hands, prepared to fight.

It was clear these two, even though outnumbered, were skilled warriors, while the bunch of gallowglasses, lacking skill, relied on nothing more than their sheer size, strength, and brute force.

Lyra clenched her hands in terror, yet she could not tear her eyes away from what was unfolding before her. The four hulking gallowglasses launched themselves with a series of grunts and guttural mutterings at the two stalwart warriors blocking their path.

It took very little time and even less effort from the two warriors before two of the ruffians lay badly injured in the grass, groaning and clutching at their wounds, while blood flowed freely, turning the green grass red.

One of the remaining pair hurled himself at the second of the two warriors, holding his axe up high with two hands. Lyra flinched, her heart jumping like a jack-in-the-box as he brought down the axe with a mighty blow aimed at the head of the second of the two warriors.

But the lad was too quick. He feinted to the left and, leaning to the right, brought his claymore up under his opponent’s ribcage as swift as an arrow, piercing his heart.

With a deathly grunt, the brute toppled like a fallen tree, to lie unmoving at the warrior’s feet.

Meanwhile, Red-Beard was locked in battle with the tall, gray-eyed warrior. By now the barbarian was clearly tiring, swinging his battle-axe with less and less strength, failing with each attempt to land a blow. Every time he brought his weapon down, the warrior skipped nimbly out of the way.

The two men circled each other, Red-Beard’s face drawn into a terrible snarl. The other warrior maintained his calm, watching, parrying each wild swing of the axe, waiting for his moment to strike.

Although Lyra’s stomach roiled at the bloodshed and she trembled uncontrollably, she was strangely excited, hearing only the sounds of steel upon steel and the grunts and heavy breathing of the men. That these two warriors had come to her rescue just as she was despairing at her captivity, was surely meant to be. Her heart was in her mouth as she prayed for the victory of the tall, dark-haired warrior.

To her unbounded relief he took his advantage when it came, thrusting a fierce claymore through his opponent’s belly. Red-beard sank to his knees, blood spurting and, with a loud groan, he fell face forward and lay still.

It was over.

The two warriors hastily wiped the blood from their weapons and the slightly taller one of the pair turned to Lyra and bowed from the waist as calmly as if this was a mere Sunday afternoon pleasantry. She marveled at the cool way he had dispatched two men to meet their Maker, while her heart was hammering at what she’d been witness to.

“I am Tòrr MacKinnon. At yer service, lass. Ye’ve naught tae fear from these four unholy miscreants now.”

He turned to the other tall lad who also bowed. But where Tòrr was elegant, the second man was burly, his shoulders wide. “Me companion is named Edmund Sinclair.”

Still trembling, Lyra studied the two men. Both were good to look upon in their own way, although she had seen few men during her years in the Priory to make comparisons. Edmund’s strong face was marred by a scar that travelled from his temple to his jaw while Tòrr’s features were fine-boned, unblemished and aristocratic. Truth be told, there was something in Tòrr’s face that appealed to her more than Edmund’s, despite his fierce frown.

Hauling in a deep, steadying, breath, she curtsied, “I thank ye kindly fer yer valor. I dinnae ken who these wretches were, yet I feared fer me life when they took me.”

At that moment Mother Una came darting from the gate where she’d remained while the fighting took place. She carried the carved box containing Lyra’s precious items and the bundle of clothing they had put together. She seemed to recognize the dark-haired man.

She squinted, taking in the warrior’s features, a flash of recognition in her eyes. “I believe ye’re the Laird Tòrr MacKinnon, are ye nae? I remember ye from many years past. Now ye’re grown and have earned a reputation.”

Tòrr nodded, gravely. “Aye. That is me name.” He gave a soft laugh. “And, I ken some have called me The Mad Laird. I came here fer a meeting with the Abbott Finguine, who is one of me kin. We had business at the Monastery.” He gestured toward the distant Abbey, further along the path. “We were making our way back tae the village of Baile Mòr, planning tae take a boat over tae Mull, when we came upon these ruffians.”

“I thank ye most kindly fer yer intervention. Without it, I fear this lass would have been dragged with them tae a terrible fate.” Mother Una reached for Lyra’s hand. “I beg ye tae take the Lady Lyra wi’ ye tae the Isle of Mull.”

Lyra gasped.

What is this? I’ve only barely escaped from those barbarians and now Maither Una wishes tae foist me on tae these strangers.

In despair, she turned to Mother Una who spoke but quiet enough for Lyra to be the one hearing the words. “Lyra, dinnae forget the plan we made and the steps ye were tae follow if ye were in danger and needed tae escape.

Lyra nodded, recalling the instructions she’d memorized long ago. She had to flee across the water to Fionnphort. At the tavern there she was to ask for a man named Thorfinn Comyn, who would help her return to her clan lands.

She squared her shoulders and looked up at the Laird Tòrr. “I dinnae wish tae travel wi’ ye.”

Tòrr dipped his head. “Dinnae fash, lassie. I’ve nay intention of taking ye away from Iona. I’ve nay need fer a nun at me castle. The priest who bides at Dùn Ara is a solitary soul who’d nae take kindly tae a young nun disturbing his solitude.”

Mother Una quickly intervened. “Ye dinnae understand, me laird. This lady is nae nun but an oblate who has been wi’ us since she was a bairn. Enemies of her family have sought her out.” Here Mother Una caught her breath, signing the Cross. “She is in grave danger now they’ve discovered where she bides. She raised pleading hands. “I implore ye tae take her wi’ ye tae safety on the isle of Mull.”

Lyra observed this with a sinking heart. If she was taken to Mull in the custody of the Laird Tòrr, how would she ever be able to make her way back to the mainland, to her clan? She huffed with indignation.

The laird bowed deferentially to Mother Una. “I regret I cannae be of assistance tae the lass, Maither. I am nay sailing back tae Dùn Ara, but travelling tae me home on horseback.”

He turned to go.

Mother Una was wringing her hands in desperation, while Lyra looked on with a measure of satisfaction. She could hardly be blamed if Laird Tòrr was the one to refuse to take her.

“Look!” Mother Una cried out suddenly in great alarm, her hand pointing toward the waters of the Sound of Iona that separated Iona from the Isle of Mull. Although the light was fading and darkness would soon fall, it was clearly visible from where they stood. A boat was making its way toward the shore. “There are more of those evil men coming here. If ye abandon her she’ll be taken.”

Catching sight of the boat, Lyra felt a stab of ice through her heart.

Rowing hard against the tide were another eight men, dressed similarly to the four gallowglasses who had been defeated by Tòrr and his companion.

He groaned. “I see them. Ye’re right, there will be nay protection fer the lass.” He turned to Edmund who was nodding. “We must take her wi’ us. There’s nay choice fer I’ll nay leave the lass tae be taken by those vicious barbarians.” He reached a hand to seize Lyra’s arm. “Come, there’s nay time tae waste.”

Before she could so much as protest or even bid farewell to the Priory, Mother Una thrust her belongings into her arms and waved her away. “Go, quickly. Be safe. I shall send word tae yer clan of yer whereabouts, me dear.”

With that, the three of them hurtled down the path heading toward the village.

They raced along the shore; Tòrr held out a supporting hand to Lyra as she stumbled on the rocks, but she shook it away.

“Hurry lass,” Edmund urged. “We must reach our fisherman before the others reach the shore.”

Lyra ran as fast as she was able, Tòrr carrying her bundle and the carved box. Still her skirts tangled around her knees and the rocks underfoot caused her to tread too slowly. She felt as if she was a great burden to these men, a prisoner they’d been forced to take and protect.

When at last they came upon the boat they sought, the fisherman Tam who was to row them across the sound was waiting nearby. Lyra refused to stand by submissively, but bent her back along with the others as they hastily pushed the boat from the shore. Once they were in deeper water and Tam plied the oars, she took her place beside them without a word.

It was only as she watched the disappearing shore of Iona and the distant stone walls of the Priory, gulls wheeling overhead, that Lyra’s perilous situation truly dawned on her. Little did she know when the day had dawned, what would befall her by nightfall. Even her worst nightmare would not have prepared her for this day. Now, here she was, in the company of two strangers, fleeing from the only place she’d ever felt safe, having narrowly escaped being poisoned and kidnapped. She was heading for an uncertain future in a place she knew nothing about, except that it was taking her even further from her clan lands.

Trying to catch her breath, Lyra looked along the beach where the gallowglasses were just pulling their boat into the shore. As they reached it, to her horror, she saw one of them pointing in their direction. Several dun-clad men started along the beach heading their way.

“Quick, quick.” Her breath caught in her throat and her heart was pounding so hard she almost expected it to jump from her chest. She moaned as the men headed toward them at a run, shouting words she could not make out.

Tam, the fisherman, pulled hard on his oars while both Tòrr and Edmund unsheathed their claymores and hefted the heavy swords firmly in readiness. As the little craft skimmed across the water Lyra saw the men who were hunting her pushing their boat into the deep water.

“Can ye go faster?” Lyra tried to draw in a breath, but it seemed locked in her throat.

While she might escape, what would become of Mother Una and the sisters, now so unprotected in the nunnery. If the first four men had not hesitated to commit sacrilege by forcing their way into the nunnery and, even worse, striking Mother Una, she expected the others would show no mercy.

She grew cold, her fingers and toes tingled, her head was suddenly dizzy and her hands were stricken with a sudden, uncontrollable, shaking.

Edmund looked at her, a frown creasing his brow. “Are ye all right, lass?”

She shook her head, gasping, one hand clasping her chest as if to steady her heartbeat.

Tòrr caught her eye. “Dinnae fash, lass. We’re away. They’ll nae catch us now. Ye’re safe with us.”

He spoke kindly, but he did not understand. Her fear was not for herself, but for the sisters and Mother Una. She struggled to speak, but the words simply wouldn’t leave her lips.

They were still some way from the shore when Tam put up his oars. “Ye’ll need to slip over the side now. ‘Tis low tide and I cannae take the boat further in for fear of being jagged on those rocks.” He pointed to a row of sharp rocks exposed by the tide.

Edmund leaped over the side, the water well above his knees. Tòrr passed Lyra’s bundle and the wooden box over and Edmund began making his way toward the shore with her belongings under his arm.

Tòrr was tucking his kilt into his belt, paying her little attention. “There’s naething fer it, but fer us tae go into the water and wade tae shore. Tie up those robes, or else ye’ll be wet through.”

Lyra was still striving to draw breath and all she could do was shake her head while her fingers fumbled with her voluminous clothing. Suddenly it all seemed too much.

“Lass, we must away.” Tòrr threw one leg over the side of the boat, tipping it alarmingly, as he stepped into the water.

The boat righted itself and a shaking Lyra rose to her feet, still gasping, struggling to breathe evenly. She took a small step and raised one foot onto the edge of the boat which again threatened to tip. She gave a small, alarmed cry. Tòrr, who was standing in thigh-high water, urged her impatiently.

“Just slide yer leg over, lass, the water is nay deep. “Be quick if ye dinnae wish to be captured again.” He looked up at the sound of shouting from across the water. “They’re nae far behind us.”

Almost out of her wits by now, Lyra slowly lowered herself over the side into the dark water. As both her legs went in, she was suddenly afraid and clutched at the side of the boat, causing it to tip. She fell back, flailing, her feet scrabbling in vain for the seabed as the water rushed over her. Taking in a large, choking, gulp of salty water, she disappeared under the surface of the murky sea.

It was so dark. In her panic she quite forgot to hold her breath and the water rushed into her nostrils. She thrashed her arms and kicked her feet but she was weak and dizzy and it was impossible to tell which way would take her up to the surface and which direction would drag her to the bottom.

Her chest was burning as it filled with water. In one last desperate attempt, she managed to fling her arms wide, opening her mouth in a silent scream as the world became distant. She closed her eyes.

So, this is what drowning feels like.

–>

Best selling books of Kenna

 

Moy Hall, Inverness. Two weeks earlier…

 

There was nothing in the world that could stop Kathleen Mackintosh from getting what she wanted—nothing, perhaps, other than her parents’ stubbornness.

How long had she spent in that room fighting with them? How many times had they gone through the same thing, circling the topic again and again? By now, she was exhausted, desperate to find a solution, but while she was trying to work on one, her parents simply refused to even listen.

“Fenella is me best friend!” she reminded them, not for the first time that day. It was a point she had repeated time and time again ever since the very start of their argument, only to be ignored every single time. “If I dinnae go tae her weddin’, then who will?”

“Her other friends,” her father said, entirely unaffected by Kathleen’s ceaseless pleas. Those who knew them both often liked to joke that she had inherited not only her father’s looks, with her blue eyes and pale complexion, but also his obstinacy and his single-minded desire to do as he pleased. “Surely, the lass has other friends than ye.”

Of course, she did. Fenella was a lovely young woman, kind and full of warmth, so people flocked to her, just like Kathleen had. And yet, none of them were as close to her as Kathleen and none of them could be there for her like she could at such a difficult time.

Because it was a tragedy. Never before in her life had Kathleen felt the ripples of another’s despair as much as when she read Fenella’s letter inviting her and her family to her wedding. The first piece of paper she had unfolded was nothing but an invitation. It was lavish and written in a loopy script, just as one would expect from the daughter of Laird Stewart of Appin. The second paper, tucked carefully among the folds, was a letter addressed to her, telling Kathleen of Fenella’s feelings regarding this marriage alliance—and they were anything but positive.

Kathleen wanted to be there for her; she was going to do anything it took to make it to Castle Stalker.

If only me parents would understand!

Her father’s small study felt suffocating as she paced back and forth, her footsteps dampened by the plush carpet under her feet. As the advisor of his brother, Laird Alec Mackintosh, her father spent most of his time in that cramped room, behind his large oak desk. Kathleen, too, had spent many of her days there as a child. She used to spend her evenings buried in the stacks of books even when she couldn’t read them. And later, once she could, she did not care for their contents, as most of them had to do with war and clan matters. Sometimes, she would sit by his feet and listen idly as he and her uncle discussed their days over a cup of wine.

But those days were long gone. Now, at twenty-three years of age, it had been almost a decade since she had stopped sitting by his feet and had started to stand before him, arms crossed, arguing with him instead.

Why must we always argue? This is such a simple thing!

Even if they didn’t want to attend the wedding, then surely, they could send Kathleen. If anything, that would be the proper thing to do; someone from Clan Mackintosh had to be there, considering that the Stewarts were their close allies.

“Kathleen, be reasonable,” her mother, Ilyssa, said from where she stood by her father’s side like a sentinel. Her hand rested on the back of her father’s chair in that way it always did when they were trying to present a united front to her. “We are at war. We cannae simply leave the castle when we are at war. And ye most certainly cannae go on yer own. The Campbells willnae hesitate tae have ye hanged if ye fall in their hands. Ye ken they crave tae solidify the Campbells as the most powerful clan in the Highlands.”

“We’re nae at war,” Kathleen said with a roll of her eyes.

“We very well could be soon,” her father said and the serious tone he assumed was enough to make her snap her mouth shut.

Kathleen had never experienced war in her lifetime. Skirmishes, yes, and conflicts that seemed like they could lead to war if the clans involved did not proceed with care, but never a war. She had seen other clans ravaged by it, though. She had seen the effects it could have, even if she had never experienced it herself.

And she knew it was no laughing matter.

“Our forces are risin’, but that only means our enemies are more eager than ever tae strike,” her father continued, tone dripping with bitterness. “The Campbells want tae eradicate Jacobite influence. I cannae explain tae ye the danger ye will face if ye leave these walls. It’s safe here, in the castle. Nay one in the family will go anywhere. All o’ us are stayin’ right where we are whether ye like it or nae, lass, an’ I willnae hear another word on the matter!”

“But—”

“I said nae another word!”

“But Faither—”

“Quiet!”

“Nay!” Kathleen shouted, louder than her father so that she would be heard over him even if he continued to try and silence her. “Why will ye nae even listen tae me? I understand! I understand it is dangerous but Fenella needs me! Here! See fer yerself.”

As she spoke, she tossed the bunched-up letter, which had remained crumpled in her hand ever since she had read it, onto her father’s desk. With a sigh, her father reached for it and read it silently, her mother doing the same over his shoulder.

When he placed it back down, he rubbed a hand wearily over his face and then up his short, golden hair. Her mother sighed, shaking her head ever so slightly, the movement almost imperceptible.

“Poor lass,” she said. “Alas, she isnae the first or the last, but at least she has her family. Dinnae fash, Kathleen. Fenella will be fine.”

“Ye dinnae ken that,” said Kathleen through gritted teeth. Her mother had been lucky enough to wed a man like her father, but not everyone had the same luck. While she didn’t know the man Fenella was about to wed, she also wouldn’t be surprised if he was unkind or even cruel to her.

Drawing in a deep breath, Kathleen made her way to the small window by her father’s desk and gazed outside at the Mackintosh lands that stretched under the hill where the castle stood. The frost had not yet begun to thaw and the sky was the steel gray of a sword, the chilly air as sharp as its blade. It was as if the war her parents feared so terribly was being foretold. It was as if the land itself was preparing for it.

“I’m nae askin’ ye tae go alone,” Kathleen said, her gaze never leaving the sprawling valley outside. “If anythin’, I expected that everyone would wish tae come. The Stewarts are our allies. Why would ye nae wish tae come with me?”

“We cannae leave the castle unprotected,” her father pointed out. “The Stewarts are our allies, aye, but they also understand that, if it truly comes to war, one cannae abandon one’s home.”

“Kieran an’ Devon, then,” said Kathleen in an attempt to bargain with her father. “They could accompany me.”

Her cousins were capable warriors and she had no doubt they could protect her from any harm that could befall her on their way. They would be an important asset to the clan in case of war, but surely, her father and her uncle could spare them for a few days. Just long enough for them to head to Clan Stewart, attend the wedding, and come back.

“Dae ye nae listen tae anythin’ I am sayin’?” her father demanded, his head falling back as his hand curled into a tight fist where it rested on the desk among a mess of documents. “Alec willnae let his lads go anywhere when the clan is under threat. An’ I willnae let ye leave this castle anyway. Even if fer now there are only threats, and nay serious actions are being taken. I’m nae takin’ any chances.”

“It is only fer two weeks!” Kathleen said, her head whipping around to stare at her father in disbelief. “An’ most o’ those days, I’ll be in Castle Stalker, well away from harm!”

There was no safer place for her to be than Castle Stalker. From her previous visits there, Kathleen had seen the natural fortification of the keep, which stood on a tidal islet. When the tide was high, no invading army could cross—not without boats, at least, and no one would be foolish enough to do such a thing. Not only that, but the Stewarts had a strong army, just as strong as Clan Mackintosh’. Her parents’ concerns were not unfounded, but they were, in her opinion, exaggerated to say the least.

“The travel tae Castle Stalker is three, four days,” her father said. He was red-faced now, the blood rushing to his head with every passing moment, the volume of his voice rising along with it. “That is plenty o’ time fer ye tae encounter someone from Clan Campbell an’ if ye dae, then ye’re dead. They ken who we are. One look at ye an’ they’ll ken ye’re me daughter.”

“Bran,” her mother said, the hand that rested on the back of the chair now moving to her father’s shoulder. “Calm yerself.”

“How can I calm meself?” her father demanded. “She’s just like ye, Ilyssa. Too… too free-spirited!”

“Ach, but ye like that about me,” her mother said with a small smile, one her father easily returned, only for Kathleen to roll her eyes at them.

“So it is fine fer maither tae be like this, but nae fer me?”

In Kathleen’s mind, that was a fair question, but it didn’t seem to be so for her father. He gave her an unimpressed look, one that only served to infuriate her even more, while her mother took on that air of wisdom—only to say the one thing Kathleen was tired of hearing.

“Ye’re our daughter,” her mother said softly, leaving her father’s side to walk around the desk and approach her. She wrapped her fingers around her arm and pulled her into an embrace, one Kathleen returned reluctantly. “Once ye have yer own bairns, ye will understand why we fear fer ye so.”

She didn’t have children and so she could not argue with that logic, but she knew it to be false. It was one thing to care about one’s child, to want to keep it safe, and it was another to hold it imprisoned in a keep out of fear.

Kathleen couldn’t argue with either of them any longer, though. Sooner or later, her parents would put an end to the conversation, even if it remained unresolved. They had never listened, and she doubted that they would start to listen now.

With a deep sigh, Kathleen sagged in her mother’s arms, letting her eyes fall shut. “Alright,” she said. “Alright, I will write tae Fenella.”

But nae tae tell her I willnae be attendin’ the weddin’. They can say what they want. I will be by her side.

 

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Chapter One

Moy Hall, Inverness

March, 1714

Kathleen’s boots sank into muddy patches of earth as she snuck around the castle grounds. It had rained earlier that day, leaving the land moist and soft, which only served to make the silent, stealthy trek to the stables even harder for her.

It didn’t help that she had to carry everything she would need in one oversized bag. Both her travels and her stay in Castle Stalker would be short, but she would need several changes of clothes and even more accessories for her looks. A lady of her rank could not be seen in any state other than perfection, especially for an event as important as a wedding.

The early morning air was crisp and cold, the chill stinging her face. Her fingers were already frozen and with her free had, she tightened her wool cloak around her shoulders, holding the fabric tightly. Every step she took was laborious. Not only because of the weight of her bag, but also because she had to be on alert, watching carefully around her for any sign of guards.

If they caught her, they were bound to take her straight to her father, and when he found out that she had left home against his explicit orders to remain where she was, he would not allow her to leave Moy Hall for the rest of her life.

But it was a risk she had to take. Her best friend, Fenella, needed her more than ever, and Kathleen refused to deny her her presence when she knew how much it would help her. The letter she had received from her a week prior spoke of a terrible fate—an unwanted marriage, an unloving husband, a lifetime of torment ahead of her. Ignoring the risks of travel to make sure she was there for a friend was only natural for Kathleen.

She had fought tooth and nail to be heard before deciding to leave secretly. She had tried to reason with her parents, to explain to them that Fenella needed her at her wedding, but they had refused to allow her to go. Even when Kathleen had asked for guards, pointing out that she would be safe with them, her parents had not given in. Clan Campbell was preparing for war, they had told her. there was a good chance they would soon attack, and every Mackintosh had to be in the safety of the keep when that happened.

Naturally, Kathleen hadn’t listened, for she was determined to go help her friend.

Nothing but the last light of the moon was there to guide her as she walked towards the stables. Soon, the flicker of dawn would wash over the castle and it would be impossible to hide from prying eyes. She had to leave as soon as possible, before she was discovered.

Just as she rounded the corner in the narrow path that led to the stables, a hand shot out and grabbed her, and Kathleen couldn’t help but yelp. She muffled the sound with a hand over her mouth, but it was already too late—not only had she been caught, but the sound rang out across the gardens before she had managed to cover her mouth.

“Where dae ye think ye’re goin’?”

The voice was painfully familiar and Kathleen didn’t need to turn around to know who her captor was, once the first wave of her panic had subsided. Her heart was still thundering in her chest, her hands shaking from the fear that she had been discovered, and she couldn’t help but look around her for a moment to see if anyone else had heard her.

Only once she determined there was no one else around did she manage to breathe again. With a roll of her eyes, she smacked Devon’s hand off her and turned to face him, her features twisting with indignation.

“What are ye daein’?” she demanded, giving him another push for good measure. “Ye gave me a fright, ye fool!”

In the dim light of the moon, Devon was little more than a shadow. Only his blond hair shone in the moonlight, but she could tell he was terribly pleased by the sound of his laughter.

“Did I scare ye?” Devon asked, and there was no hint of regret in his voice.

“O’ course ye did!” Kathleen hissed. “It isnae funny.”

“I disagree,” said Devon. With a satisfied smile that was barely visible in the dark, he began to walk backwards towards the stables, nodding in their direction. In an affected voice, he said, “Come. Yer steed is prepared fer ye, me lady.”

It had been a struggle to convince Devon and Kieran to help her with this. At first, she had had no intention of asking for their assistance, but it wasn’t long before the two of them found out about her plan, when she had been making arrangements with the stable boy regarding her horse. Kathleen had narrowly escaped a terrible fate—Kieran revealing everything to her father out of concern for her well-being. Convincing the ever-serious Kieran that it was something she had to do had been far from an easy task. If anything, she suspected the trip in itself would be easier than convincing them to let her go to Castle Stalker.

With Clan Campbell threatening war against Clan Mackintosh, everyone in Moy Hall was on high alert. No one was supposed to leave the keep, not even for an event such as an allied clan’s wedding, and so when Kathleen had received Fenella’s invitation—along with the letter she had secretly folded within it, which was meant just for her—she had known her parents would never allow it. So, in the end, she did what had to be done.

If she had to do it alone, then so be.

Kieran and Devon had agreed to help her, preparing her horse for her and sneaking her out of the castle so she could depart undetected.

Once in the stables, Kathleen blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light of the torches that lined the walls. Kieran was already there, finalizing the last preparations and ensuring the saddle was properly placed on the horse.

Kieran and Devon were identical twins. Had it not been for the different way they wore their hair—Devon’s longer and messy, always tangled from the wind, while Kieran’s was shorter and neatly tied back at all times—Kathleen doubted anyone would be able to tell them apart unless they opened their mouths.

“Are ye both out o’ yer minds?” Kieran asked in that smooth baritone voice of his. Frazzled, he stomped over to them and pointed an accusatory finger at them both. “Dae ye ken what will happen if anyone finds out we’re daein’ this?”

“They’ll find out eventually,” Devon said with a small shrug, entirely unconcerned.

“It was his fault!” Kathleen pointed out. “Devon’s the one who scared me!”

“Ye’re actin’ like a pair o’ bairns,” said Kieran. “I dinnae even ken why I agreed tae this.”

“Because even when ye complain, ye always wish tae help,” Kathleen pointed out.

Kieran didn’t try to deny that, though he rolled his eyes as if to protest. He really did simply enjoy complaining. Silently, he held out his hand for Kathleen to hand him her bag and once she did, he strapped it on the saddle.

“Remember… we’re only allowin’ ye tae dae this under the stipulation that ye send us a letter every other day,” Kieran said sternly. For someone who was only two years older than her, he could certainly assume a fatherly air with frightening ease. “If we dinnae receive one, we will come after ye.”

“Then maybe ye can come tae the weddin’ too!” Kathleen teased, but while as Devon snorted with mirth, Kieran gave her no reaction.

“This isnae a laughin’ matter,” he said.

Devon cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck as he tried to hide his grin. After a few moments, though, he appeared a little more serious, a little more restrained.

“Kieran is right,” he told Kathleen. “Ye should be careful. But it isnae as though ye’re walkin’ intae a death trap!”

“Perhaps it isnae a death trap, but it isnae safe either,” Kieran said flatly.

“Ach, we’ve done much worse than this,” said Devon. “Remember the time when we snuck out o’ the castle an’ went tae that tavern—”

“I think that’s enough!” Kieran exclaimed, slapping a hand over Devon’s mouth, much to Kathleen’s chagrin. She would have like to have known what had happened in that tavern, but chances were, they would never tell her.

At least Kieran wouldn’t—if she played her cards right, maybe she could yet get the truth out of Devon when she returned.

Both Devon and Kathleen struggled to stifle their giggles as Kieran shook his head in disappointment. After a moment of hesitation, when Kathleen wondered if she was doing the right thing after all, she hugged them both and then took the horse’s reins from Kieran, ready to start her little adventure.

Sneaking her out of the castle was no easy task, as there were guards everywhere, but naturally, all the guards knew Kieran and Devon well. And with Devon’s easy charm and friendliness, they slipped past even the most suspicious of them. By the time they made it to the rear gate of the castle, Kathleen’s heart was beating fast, her eyes searching for any signs of anything or anyone who could prevent her from leaving. The closer she got to her freedom, the more she feared that it would be snatched right out of her hands. In the end, though, no one stopped her.

After saying her goodbyes to her cousins and promising them once again that she would write to them every other day, she stepped out of the castle walls and into the wilderness that stretched behind it. Castle Stalker was approximately four days’ worth of riding away, and Kathleen was determined to make the most of it, travelling as fast as she could.

Dawn broke in the distance as she rode away from the castle, the imposing building getting smaller and smaller over her shoulder as she left it behind. A dull blue glow fell over the land—the first light of the day as cold and biting as the wind. Around her, there were nothing but trees and open land. The first birdsong of the morning reached her ears and for the first time in days, she allowed herself to believe that perhaps her plan would work out, after all.

An hour had passed by the time she couldn’t bear the silence anymore. The dull dawn had turned into an even duller day, the sky gray and domed with clouds. The emptiness all around her gave her no comfort. She had never travelled alone before—she had never even been this alone in her life.

Kathleen began to hum a song to herself, one that her mother had sang to her when she was a child. It helped a little; she didn’t feel so alone, so isolated from the rest of the world.

But then, just as she took a turn on the path, the thunderous sound of hooves echoed all around her. Wide-eyed, Kathleen looked frantically around her to locate the source of the sound, though she couldn’t see any signs of danger—not until three men rushed out of the treeline just ahead of her, heading straight towards her.

And in that moment, she understood that being all alone on that path would have been a blessing.

Chapter Two

Kathleen’s shriek pierced the morning air like a bell announcing war.

In an instant, the three men had gathered around her, surrounding her from all sides. Two of them jumped off the horses as the last one reached for her, pushing her off her saddle just before she had the chance to escape.

Had she managed to stay on her horse, perhaps she could have fled. Now, though, she had no chance of escape.

All the men were dressed in the blue and green shades of Clan Campbell—colors familiar to her and anyone in those parts, as there was no greater enemy to the Mackintosh Clan.

Her parents had been right. The danger was more real, more palpable than she could have ever imagined. And now that she had fled the castle without anyone knowing, there was no one there to save her.

Even as Kathleen was being dragged by the arm, she didn’t stop putting up a fight. When her captor tried to hold her still, she kicked at him and thrashed in his grip, wild and furious. Maybe if there had only been one man, she would have managed to escape him all on her own with how willing she was to fight, her desire to flee stronger than any lack of strength or skill. But with three men against her, there was nothing she could do other than scream and kick uselessly at them, only prolonging the inevitable.

Frustrated as he was from her fighting, one of the men who were trying to control her punched Kathleen straight across the cheek, so hard that her head whipped to the side with frightening speed. Pain exploded all over the side of her face—a blinding pain that made her ears ring and her head spin, her vision turning to black for a few moments.

And that was why the strange voice was a surprise as it echoed behind her, announcing the arrival of another man.

“Ye wish tae fight?” he called just as he jumped off his horse and balled up his fists, stomping over to the three men. “Then leave the lass an’ fight me.”

The man holding her didn’t move, but the other two were quick to go to him, meeting him halfway. With her vision restored, Kathleen watched in horror as a fight erupted among them, the pain that still lingered disorienting her and making it difficult to keep track of the men.

The first blow came from the larger of the two, a young man with pale eyes and a red face, his mouth twisted with effort. The strange man avoided his fist, lunging to the side, and swiftly delivered a blow of his own, one that caught the man in the stomach.

Just as Kathleen thought it was going to be a fist fight, though, the other man pulled out a small blade and immediately, his fellow soldier did the same. Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, the stranger took a few steps back from them to do the same, grabbing his dirk from where it was strapped around his waist, fingers wrapping tightly around the hilt.

The more the pain subsided and clarity returned, the more Kathleen’s desire to fight back grew. Soon, she was thrashing in her captor’s grip once more, kicking and twisting as she tried to escape his grasp.

She didn’t rest for a moment, at least not until she heard a loud thud and saw that the stranger had rendered one of the Campbell men unconscious, a small cloud of dust rising around his body as he hit the ground.

Stunned, Kathleen watched as he did quick work of the second man, rendering him unconscious with a single punch across the face. And then, once he too was laying on the ground next to his friend, he turned his sights to the man holding her.

Slowly, he let go of her, raising up his hands as if in surrender. Now that she was free, Kathleen wasted no time before she ran as far from them as she could—but not far enough to escape entirely.

For a moment, the two of them simply stared at each other. The stranger narrowed his eyes at the Campbell soldier, as if suspicious of his intentions. In the end, his suspicion was justified, as the man rushed towards him, fists balled up and ready for a fight.

With a feint to the left, the stranger let him run right past him before he spun around and kicked him. The force of his kick was strong enough to throw the man off-balance, making him fall to the ground, and the stranger wasted no time before he hit him on the back of the head as well, making sure he wouldn’t move before he pushed himself back up to his feet.

Standing above them, the stranger’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. With the men unmoving on the ground, he turned his sights on Kathleen.

I should have fled.

What if he, too, wanted something from her? What if he had only saved her from those men to have his way with her or because he wanted to rob her?

He was… handsome. Very handsome. She wanted to keep her mind on alert but he was proving to be distracting.

It took her a few moments to realize the wheezing sound filling her ears was coming from her own chest as she tried—and failed—to breathe. She slid down to the ground, curling up on a patch of green grass as she tried to catch her breath, but no matter what she did, she did not seem able to draw in enough air.

When the stranger approached her, her fear bubbled over.

“It’s alright,” he promised. “I willnae hurt ye. I promise.”

“Who are ye?” she demanded.

“Me name’s Blaine,” he said. “I was headin’ down tae the valley an’ saw ye get attacked, so I thought I’d help ye.”

“Why?”

Blaine frowned, as if he didn’t understand the question. “Well… because ye were in danger. I wished tae help.”

Kathleen observed him with narrowed eyes, taking in every detail of his face—the deep green eyes that seemed to draw one’s attention immediately, the sharp lines of his jaw and his nose, the dark strands of hair that now fell over his forehead, tousled after the fight.

He was the most handsome man Kathleen had ever seen, and warmth spread over her body at the sight of him. Her cheeks heated and she couldn’t help but drop her gaze, her embarrassment getting the better of her.

It wasn’t often that she was embarrassed, but she wasn’t knowledgeable in the ways of men and women.

Blaine had saved her life.

He is not only handsome, but also me savior.

However, she was still a little apprehensive; how could she not be? He was a complete stranger to her. But when he offered his hand to her to help her up, she accepted it, standing to her feet.

“Thank ye,” she said, her voice thin but unwavering as the first wave of shock began to subside. Absentmindedly, she began to dust herself, trying to get all the dirt off her thick cloak in vain, just to distract herself from the terror of her recent experience.

“Come,” Blaine said gently, nodding towards his horse, which had obediently stayed nearby, munching on a bit of grass. “I have some ointment fer that cut on yer cheek.”

“Ach! Is it very bad?”

“The cut?” Blaine asked with a frown. Hesitantly, he reached for her and Kathleen swiftly pulled back at first, frightened. Then, she froze, her eyes staring up at him, her rosy lips parted ever so slightly as he pushed a strand of her hair back to reveal her cheek. “It isnae very bad. It will heal in nay time.”

For a moment, she said nothing. She only stared at him in silence, breath catching in her throat.

No one had ever touched her like that before. No man had ever gone so close, and to have a stranger displaying such intimate tenderness towards her now brought her mind to a complete halt.

When Blaine spoke again, it took Kathleen a few seconds to understand what he was saying.

“What’s a lass like ye daein’ alone in the woods?” Blaine asked.

“I’m… travelin’,” she said, a little hesitantly. She didn’t know just how much she should tell this man when she knew nothing about him at all. “I’m goin’ tae a weddin’.”

“A weddin’, is it?” Blaine asked. “Alone?”

Kathleen looked around her as if searching for someone else.

“Are me guards nae here?”

It seemed to take Blaine a few moments to realize she was joking, but once he did, he chuckled softly. Before they could say anything else, though, a grunt came from the ground near them and one of the men began to stir. There was no time for talking. They had to get out of there as soon as possible.

“We must go,” he said. “Can ye get on yer horse or dae ye need help?”

Kathleen’s only answer was an amused smirk as she ran to her horse and jumped on with ease and the kind of grace that came from a lifetime of practice. Behind her, Blaine chuckled again, shaking his head as he headed to his own horse, the two of them rushing down the path.

After a few minutes of riding, she called out over the wind, “Kathleen.”

“What?” Blaine called back.

“Me name,” she said, “is Kathleen.”

Blaine smiled. “Pleased tae make yer acquaintance, Kathleen.”