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Chapter One

Scotland, 1293

Rowena MacKenzie would have done anything to get away.

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

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

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

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

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

“Me faither named me his heir—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’d underestimated her.

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

Oh me God, I cannae believe I did this!

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

“Ye little—”

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

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

I willnae be dragged tae that altar. Nae today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A vast shimmering expanse appeared before her. A loch!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How can he be so calm?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How dare ye speak tae us that way!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rowena stared, scarcely daring to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Serves ye right, ye bastard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rowena forced herself to meet his piercing and unreadable eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He daesnae even flinch!

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

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

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

Focus Rowena!

“What is yer name, lass?”

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

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

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

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

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

It makes him all the more unsettling… arresting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye, so I have noticed.”

–>

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

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

Finlay and Struan Cameron.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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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.

 

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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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