“My lady Francesca, your father has asked for you. He is in his salon.”
Francesca sighed and slumped back in her chair, dropping her book in her lap. Maria, her handmaiden, offered her a sympathetic smile and a gentle pat on the shoulder.
“Did he say what he wanted?” Francesca asked.
“I’m afraid he did not, my lady,” Maria answered. “He does seem rather excited and upbeat about something though.”
She frowned. Excited and upbeat were two things she would never associate with her father. His usual disposition was dour and angry, and he was often the most unpleasant man in the world to be around. The upsetting thing though, was he had not always been that way. When her mother had still been alive, she remembered that her father had been happy. He’d had a pleasant disposition, and she had enjoyed being in his company.
That had all changed when her mother had been killed. Scottish Highlanders had come down from the hills and raided the town she and her mother had been visiting the market in, and the only reason they were there that day was because Francesca had insisted they go. If not for her insistence, her mother would still be alive. It was not enough that she bore the guilt of that on her shoulders, but her father made sure she was reminded of it every single day, adding to the burden she carried.
She and her father had grown apart since the death of her mother. They were, in all truth, strangers living beneath the same roof. Most days, he could not bear to look at her or speak with her and when he did, it was to deliver cutting insults or barbs. His disdain for her couldn’t be clearer. And over time, she had developed a healthy contempt for him in return. Francesca did her level best to avoid her father, which was easy, for he did the same.
“Perhaps he has good news he would like to share?” Maria asked hopefully.
“Maybe. But somehow, I doubt it,” Francesca said.
What she didn’t let herself say though, was that good news for her father likely meant bad news for her. She couldn’t imagine, given how they had existed beneath the same roof for years now, that he would be doing something nice for her. Her mind spun with the myriad of possibilities and the dark tidings his summons meant for her.
“Let me help you dress, my lady.”
Francesca sighed as she got to her feet. Her father had summoned her, so there was no way out of it. The punishment for ignoring his call would undoubtedly be ten times worse than whatever it was he had to say to her. So, she allowed Maria to get her dressed and presentable for an audience with her father. He would expect her to be properly dressed in his presence, after all.
Maria finished tying her long, chestnut-colored hair into a tight braid that fell to the middle of her back, affixing it with a bow, then stepped back to scrutinize her work. Francesca smoothed out her skirts and straightened the laces of her bodice, then frowned at herself in the looking glass.
“You look lovely, as always,” Maria said.
“I do not feel that way.”
“Trust me, my lady, you are,” she said. “Go now. Do not keep your Lord Father waiting.”
Rather than incur his wrath for being slow to respond to his summons, Francesca thanked Maria for her assistance, then headed out of her chamber. She trudged through the halls, heading for her father’s salon. Though the journey was not a long one, Francesca felt as if she was slogging through miles of boggy land, every step heavy and forced. She finally rounded the corner and plodded down the hallway to the heavy wooden door that stood at the end.
“My lady,” said the guard beside it with a polite nod of his head.
“Thank you, Edward.”
He opened the door for her, then closed it behind her as she stepped inside. Francesca clasped her hands at her waist like a proper lady and stepped to the center of the room. Her father sat in a chair before the fire, a cup of wine in his hand as he read through the parchment he held in the other. A small smile curled the corners of her mouth, and he did indeed have a pleased expression on his face. It only deepened the sense of dread that gripped her.
“Good of you to join me, daughter,” he said. “I trust the journey to my salon was not too taxing?”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from launching the verbal fusillade that bubbled up in her throat. If there was one thing Francesca had learned, it was to pick her battles and this was one that need not be fought.
“I was told you would like to see me,” she said.
His cold blue eyes flicked to her, sending a river of ice flowing through Francesca’s veins. Though he might seem in good cheer, the way he looked at her reminded Francesca of just how volatile and just how cold he was behind it. He drained his cup and set it on the table beside him, then got to his feet, never taking his gaze off her.
Francesca’s father, Lord Ambrose Ainsworth, was a tall and imposing man. His golden hair bore silver threads, lending him a distinguished appearance. With sharp features, deep set eyes, and a prominent chin, he had the look of a scholar, but his broad shoulders and chest, and his thick arms spoke of his days as a warrior. He had been quite the accomplished swordsman, to hear him tell it.
Now though, his dress was as impeccable as his manners. He was polished and savvy, educated and intelligent. And though he could charm just about anybody if he had a mind to, Francesca’s father was cunning and cagey, with plans on top of plans. He was a political animal, always looking to better his station, increase his wealth, and accrue as much power as he could. He was shrewd, cold, and would stab anybody in the back if it benefited him.
Her father was so a cold a man, callous to the suffering of those around him, that Francesca often wondered if her memories of him as a kind, smiling man were false. Memories planted in her mind by a desire to think better of her father than he actually was. She liked to think he had been a good man who had changed and grown colder after the death of her mother, but she wondered if he had always been this way and she merely invented the man she’d thought he once was.
He brandished the parchment in his hand. “Do you know what this is, Daughter?”
“I do not, Father,” she replied.
His eyes narrowed and a feral grin curled his lips. “This is an official proposal of marriage.”
“I did not know you were courting anybody, Father.”
The words were out of her mouth before she could bite them back and her father’s icy blue eyes narrowed and grew colder. He had never slapped her before but the dark, tight anger on his face sent a ripple of fear through her heart that he might. As if forcing himself to stay his hand, her father turned and snatched up his cup before walking to the table on the far side of the room and refilling his wine.
“You test me, Daughter, but not even your wicked, impertinent little tongue will dull my mood today,” he said.
She cleared her throat and stiffened her spine. “May I ask who I am being forced to marry?”
“Laird Halvard MacLeod.”
“Laird?” she asked, gaping at him. “You’re marrying me to a Scot?”
“I am. The terms we agreed upon for your hand were too good to pass up.”
“Is this a jest, Father?”
“It is not,” he said. “My men will escort you to the town of Raasay, where you will board a ferry and make the crossing to Brochel Castle—your new home.”
“Father—”
“I will not hear what you have to say. This decision is not yours to make,” he snapped. “As your father, the decision is mine. And I have made it. You will leave a fortnight from now.”
Her father hated the Scots. He had hated them his entire life, and the death of her mother had only deepened and hardened that hatred. It was a bigotry he had passed on to her. She viewed the Scottish as unwashed, unclean, uncouth heathens. They were barbarians and she could not believe he had entered into negotiations with one for her hand. As cruel as he was, she could not believe it would run so deep that he would marry her to one. They had murdered her mother.
She tried to tame the wild churning in her heart and tamp down the waves of emotions that battered her. She knew her father’s tone of voice and knew arguing with him would not sway him. It would only anger him. He had resolved to marry her to this Scotsman and there was naught she could do to stop it.
“I trust you received a fair price for my hand,” she said, her tone bitter and acidic.
The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “I did, Daughter. I did.”
Without another word and without his leave, Francesca turned and stormed out of his salon. She was halfway back to her chamber before she allowed herself the luxury of her tears. She choked back her sobs, trying to control herself. It was hard to do though, knowing her life was over, that she was being auctioned off to a savage. She slammed her chamber door behind her with all the strength she could muster. Francesca was certain her father had heard the thunderous boom of it slamming shut all the way in his study. She did not care.
Francesca sat on the edge of her bed, drawing deep breaths as she calmed herself and thought about what he’d said. He had told her he would be sending his men to escort her to Scotland, which meant he would not be accompanying her on the trip. And that realization sparked a flicker of hope in her breast as an idea began to form, an idea she had a fortnight to plan. As pieces started coming together, a small, tight smile curled the corners of her mouth.
She could not be forced to marry this Scotsman if she never arrived in Raasay.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
Don’t miss your link for the whole book at the end of the preview.
Chapter One
The borderlands of Mackenzie territory Autumn, 1719
The carriage bounced hard along the rutted dirt road, jostling and shaking the very bones in Francesca’s body. The condition of the roads was just one more thing she hated about this accursed land.
How much she wanted to be at home, back in Northumberland! She missed it already. Her father’s manor house, near Hexham, was surrounded by some of the most stunning natural beauty the world had to offer. And even though she knew Scotland was beautiful, it was not the same. It was a place Francesca did not want to be. It was not and would never be her home.
Her father had tried to convince her the Isle of Raasay could be good for her, that she might build a wonderful life with Laird Halvard MacLeod in Brochel Castle. Not that he truly cared about what she might want for her life. And he certainly didn’t care about her happiness. All he cared about were the benefits he would reap from an alliance with a laird and clan as strong and powerful as Clan MacLeod.
She didn’t know much about this Laird MacLeod. All she knew was that they called him “the Savage”. In truth though, she thought of all Scots as savages. Francesca had no desire to marry in the first place. But the thought of marrying a Scot? That was even worse.
Francesca was unwilling to sit idly by while she was given over to a man she had no desire to marry. She had known that day was coming and she had formulated a plan to escape her fate—the fate that had been thrust upon her. She just had to be patient, wait for the right time. And as she looked out the window again, she knew that time had come.
Francesca’s stomach churned and her heart jumped into her throat. She reached into her bag and pulled out the small prayer book her beloved mother had given her when she was just a girl. It was written entirely in French—her mother’s native tongue—and was one of her most treasured items. She also pulled a velvet purse stuffed with coin she had been secretly collecting ever since she’d formulated her plan.
Francesca stuffed them both into the folds of her skirts and readied herself. She swallowed hard, trying to work some moisture into her mouth and tried to slow her racing heart. Her entire body trembling, she leaned out the window.
“We have to stop,” she said. “I need to relieve myself.”
The driver looked over his shoulder at her. “Nay stoppin’. Yer betrothed’s orders, miss.”
“We have been on the road for hours already. I really must relieve myself. I do not wish to arrive to my new husband with wet skirts,” she complained and blushed. She could not believe she was having such a conversation with a man.
A frown crossed the driver’s face. He turned and said something to the man on the driver’s bench beside him, but the sound of the horses and carriage was too loud for her to hear what they were saying. After an interminably long wait, the driver turned back to her, a frown etched into his features, clearly displeased.
“Fine,” he said.
The carriage slowed, then came to a stop. It listed heavily to the right as the driver climbed down. A moment later, the door opened, and he set a block of stairs down in front of it, offering Francesca his hand and helped her down. She took a moment to stretch her legs and back, using the opportunity to note the positions of the half dozen armed riders her betrothed had sent to accompany her on her journey to make sure she stayed in line.
“Ye need tae be quick about it, miss. We cannae delay too long,” the driver said.
Francesca turned and walked toward the bushes, her legs shaking so hard she thought they might give out beneath her. She was so focused on keeping herself upright that it wasn’t until she reached the screen of bushes beside the road that she realized she was not alone. She turned and noticed the driver had followed her. She glanced at him then back at the mounted soldiers who were looking with curiosity.
“What do you think you are doing, sir?” she asked.
“I am daeing me job,” he replied. “I was told tae keep a close eye—”
“I do not think that extends to watching me relieve myself.”
“Miss—”
“You will not watch me, sir,” she said. “I will report such boorish behavior to my fiancé, and I can guarantee you he will not be well pleased.”
Truthfully, Francesca didn’t think her soon-to-be husband would care all that much. But given the way the man’s face blanched and an expression of alarm crossed his face, she knew it was an effective threat. He cleared his throat and nodded.
“Fine,” he said. “But be quick about it. We still have a lot of ground to cover.”
Satisfied as she watched him take a few steps, Francesca turned away and slipped behind the thick foliage. She stared between the branches, trying to make sure nobody was watching her. The soldiers all seemed to be talking amongst themselves and weren’t looking her way. The driver had stepped over to the wagon and spoke with his partner. It was now or never.
“Please be quick, miss,” the driver called.
“Please stop rushing me,” she shouted back and heard the chuckle of the soldiers.
Francesca drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had to find a well of strength inside of her she’d never felt before. If she didn’t, she would be resigning herself to a fate worse than death.
“All right. It is time,” she whispered.
Summoning all her strength and courage, Francesca turned and sprinted deeper into the forest, running away from her carriage and retinue. She sprinted over the rocky, unstable ground, her legs burning as she tried to navigate her path without turning an ankle and falling. It would most certainly mean being clapped in irons and delivered to her betrothed trussed up like a Christmas goose.
And so, she ran. Dodging between the wide, thick trunks of the trees and around piles of stones, she scrambled up a small hill. She paused and leaned against a large boulder to catch her breath. But then a small, breathless squeal passed her lips when she heard the sound of pursuit. The voices of the men chasing her were growing louder. More strident. Her heart thundered in her chest. They were closing in.
Gulping down a long breath of air, she turned and ran again but the sound of the men was growing ever louder. She stumbled just as a pair of large, rough hands seized her from behind. She screamed and thrashed as she was hauled to her feet.
Francesca managed to break free of the man’s grasp and turned around, slapping him across the face as hard as she could. The man staggered to the side, stunned for a moment, but when she turned to run again, another man grabbed hold of her. Bigger and stronger than she was, he held her fast and no amount of writhing and thrashing seemed able to break his iron grip.
“Unhand me,” she howled.
“We were ordered tae deliver ye tae Laird MacLeod and that’s what we are going tae dae, lass,” the man said. “Now, stop fighting—”
The man loosened his grip just enough for her to squirm free. She delivered a powerful kick to his groin that dropped him to his knees, his hands over his crotch, a sickly look on his face. Francesca turned and sprinted away but was brought down again by the first man. They tussled and rolled in the leafy undergrowth as she tried to get out from beneath him.
“Stop moving!”
The man brought his fist down, driving it into her stomach. Francesca’s body exploded in pain, the breath stolen from her lungs in an instant. She wheezed and croaked, desperate to catch her air. The back of her throat was coated in acidic bile, and she felt like she was about to throw up.
“Ye werenae supposed tae hit her,” the second man said as he staggered to his feet.
“How else was I going tae get her tae stop moving?” the first man complained. “I had tae take the fight out of her.”
“They will have yer head fer this.”
“She’s fine,” he snapped. “Where are the others?”
“They scattered in all directions looking fer her,” he said. “They’ll be along. We just need tae get her back to the carriage and get her in irons.”
“Gladly.”
The man who’d hit her hauled Francesca to her feet then picked her up like a sack of laundry and slung her over his shoulder. As the two men carried her back to the carriage, tears streamed down her face. She’d failed. Damn them! And my father and this ridiculous arrangement!
“What’s all this about then, eh?”
The sound of the man’s voice drew her attention and Francesca raised her head. Standing in the middle of the path back to the carriage was a tall, broad man. Long, dark hair that hung loose about his shoulders and stormy gray eyes that burned with intensity. The strong jawline and hard planes of his face gave him a stern, weathered appearance.
Dressed in black breeches, a black tunic with a wolf’s head emblazoned upon it, and black boots, the man was ruggedly handsome, a Scot by his accent. And there was a wild, untamed energy about him. As she looked at the stranger, Francesca felt her heart leap into her throat. Having lived her life despising the Scots, she was taken aback, never believing she could find a Scotsman so… alluring, so captivating. She gave herself a shake, trying to push it away, but the thoughts persisted.
“Out of the way, stranger. We’ve got nay quarrel with ye,” said the man carrying her.
“The lady daesnae look like she wants tae go with ye.”
“Ye should be mindin’ yer own business, lad. This has naethin’ tae dae with ye.”
The man pursed his lips, his eyes narrowed and burning as he stared them down, and when his gaze flickered over Francesca, she felt her cheeks turn crimson.
With sinful eyes like his even the devil would blush…
“Nay. I think ye should put her down and be on yer way.”
“We dinnae want trouble with ye. We’re just daeing our job.”
“Job’s over. Put her down and go on yer way,” the man said. “Dinnae dae as I say and both of ye will die here in this forest.”
“Last warning.”
The Highlander smirked as he began to unsheathe his sword. “So be it.”
Chapter Two
Francesca watched in horror as the big Scotsman approached the soldiers who’d been dragging her away. Part of her was terrified of the fight to come. The stranger had put himself in harm’s way for her and she had no desire to see him hurt. Or worse. She sat stone still, her mind telling her to get up and run while the men were distracted, but her body would not obey her commands.
With roars of rage, the two men rushed in from either side of the stranger, swords up and ready. The Scotsman grinned as he nimbly leapt backward, leaving them swinging at empty air.
“Ye’re goin’ tae have tae dae better than that if ye want tae get one over me, lads.”
Their faces twisted with fury, they rushed in again, one swinging his sword from high, the other cutting up from a lower angle. Francesca winced, fearing he was going to be cut in half, but he laughed as he danced to the side, leaving them once again swinging at air.
He is toying with them.
The man who’d been carrying her charged at the Scotsman, the point of his blade leading the way. But he knocked the soldier’s blade aside with a quick swipe then spun and found himself directly in the path of the other oncoming man. The soldier swung his sword, his blade slicing through the air in a murderous arc, but the stranger got his blade up in time to block it.
“Bleedin’ bastard,” the first soldier cried.
The pair of soldiers both came at him again, their faces determined, anger burning in their eyes.
As they closed in on him again, their blades silver flashes through the air, the stranger dropped and shoulder rolled, coming up behind them. He thrust with his blade, driving it through the first man’s back. His shriek of agony echoed through the forest, sending a flock of birds nesting in a nearby tree to flight in a flurry of squawks.
The second man wheeled around just as the stranger wrenched his blade free. The first man dropped to the forest floor with a hard thud and was still. The man’s jaw was clenched, and his eyes were narrow, burning with hatred.
“Ye are going tae die, ye bleedin’ bastard,” he hissed.
“Dae ye want me tae fight on one leg?” the big Scot mocked them. “Or perhaps I can put on a blindfold if it’d make it fairer, eh?”
Francesca watched in rapt fascination, her heart racing. For such a large man, he moved very gracefully. He was like a dancer who floated on the wind, his every movement elegant and horrifyingly beautiful in its deadly efficiency. She saw his muscles ripple as he slid from side to side, spinning and twirling with lethal intent. She should be terrified. She should be running in the opposite direction to escape the battle, but Francesca could do nothing but sit and watch him. Mesmerized.
The soldier howled in outrage as he rushed forward. The stranger waited until the man closed in and went to work with his blade. He hacked and slashed, his blade a dizzying flash of silver the soldier was having a hard time keeping up with. Sweat poured down his face and he grunted with the effort, parrying and thrusting in a desperate frenzy to kill his rival. As they battled, movement from the corner of Francesca’s eye drew her attention and her heart fell into her stomach as another armed soldier rushed in.
“Behind you!” she screamed.
With a powerful slash, he drove both men back, giving him a little bit of space, but the newcomer charged him. He drove the young man’s blade up then drove his fist into his face. The man’s head snapped back, sending a spray of blood high into the air. The young man fell on his back, eyes closed, out cold.
The second man came charging in and the Scot darted aside and Francesca gasped as the tip of the man’s blade narrowly missed his ribs. But he grabbed hold of the soldier’s wrist and using his momentum against him, spun him around. With one fluid movement, the Scot drove this sword into the man’s stomach. The soldier grunted and his body grew rigid.
The stranger stared into the man’s eyes, watching the light of his life flickering out. Yanking his blade from the man’s body, he let it topple over and cleaned his blade off on his cloak then turned to Francesca.
“How many more are out there?” he asked.
“I—I don’t know. There were six in my retinue, two drivers, and five, I think, who went on to scout the way ahead,” she said, shaking her head. “I think. I can’t be sure.”
“All right then,” he said. “We need tae get out of here.”
“I cannot go anywhere with you,” Francesca said, sounding as offended as she looked by his suggestion. “I do not even know you, sir.”
The Scotsman shrugged. “All right. Then ye can wait here fer the rest of the soldiers tae come back and maybe ye can explain how two of their own wound up dead then, eh?”
She gasped, her face blanching as she stared at him. But she said nothing. And she remained seated on the ground where the soldiers had first dropped her.
“From what I saw, ye didnae want tae go with these men,” he said. “Dae ye think when the rest of their men arrive, they’ll take ye where ye want tae go? Or dae ye think it more likely they’ll take ye where ye were fightin’ so hard nae tae go, eh?”
She shook her head. “Where did you come from?”
“These are me woods,” he said. “So, what dae ye want tae dae? Go with me? Or stay and wait fer the rest of the soldiers to arrive?”
Francesca gaped at him, upset at his impertinence, and said nothing for several long moments. The man finally shrugged.
“Well, good luck tae ye then, lass,” he said.
He turned and started to walk away. Francesca’s belly churned as fear gripped her heart. She quickly scrambled to her feet.
“Wait,” she called.
He slowed his pace but did not stop and walked on. She fell into step beside him, her expression angry and resentful.
“What’s yer name, lass?” he asked.
“That is none of your business, sir.”
“I saved yer life. Daesnae that entitle me tae at least ken yer name?” He said as he threw her an assessing glance over his shoulder that made her blush.
“No. It entitles you to nothing.”
“I’m riskin’ me life takin’ ye tae safety—”
“It entitles you to nothing but my thanks,” she cut him off feeling surprisingly flushed despite the chill in the air. “So, thank you.”
“All right, lass,” he said. “Have it yer way then.”
This is the story of Gillian, an adventurous English lady who finds herself captured by a mysterious and alluring Highlander. This Highlander will do whatever it takes to save his people from hunger, even abduct the daughter of his enemy. But life seldom goes as planned. What will happen when the Highlander starts falling for Gillian? And will her feelings or her logic prevail in this peculiar turn of events?
This is the story of Julia, an intelligent English lady who runs away to escape her woes and finds herself in the keep of an enticing Highlander. This Highlander, as handsome as he may be, has serious economic troubles, and only a miracle can save him. But perhaps one's answer is closer than he thinks. How will he help her face the past that is haunting her? And how will she save him?
This is the story of Gale, an adventurous English lady who runs away to escape her murderous mother and finds herself in the company of an alluring Highlander. There she is called to change her ways, and he helps her see the world from a different point of view. But her past is catching up with her. How will she elude her mother? And will this be the only obstacle in their relationship?
Lyra MacInnes sat hunched over the writing table in the warming room. Her fingers were almost blue, but the fire in the hearth never went out, providing the nuns a little respite from the terrible cold Hebridean weather. Summer was scarcely behind them but the chill was always in the air.
She sighed, finding it difficult to put into words what she had to say. Lying did not sit well with her, especially when she was telling untruths to her dearest and oldest friend Davina. But if she confessed the truth, she knew her friend would risk danger, if she still believed Lyra to be desperate to leave the Priory on the Isle of Iona.
She had resided there with the nuns since she’d been scarcely more than a child. The terrible murder of her father in cold blood had meant there was a need for her to be hidden in order for her to remain safe.
Yet, all these years at the Priory had not been a hardship. She had felt an affinity with the contemplative life of the nuns even though, as an oblate, she would never take her vows and become a Bride of Christ.
Even at the age of twelve she’d experienced a sense that she was a mere pawn, subject to the whims of powerful men. To them she was only of value because of her noble birth and the fact she was set to inherit the extensive lands owned by hercClan. There’d been talk of a betrothal but her father’s murder had put paid to that.
While it was his death that had led to her being hidden in Iona, it was keeping the secret of her identity that assured her safety. Despite the closeness she shared with Davina, it had been imperative she remain silent, hiding all knowledge of her past.
There had been many occasions she had wished she could tell her story with honesty. Even now, she wished it. But the time was not right and this letter to her friend had become necessary.
Finally, after blowing onto her cold fingers and warming them enough to be able to write with a steady hand, she smoothed the parchment and dipped her quill in the ink.
Me dearest Davina,
I trust this missive finds ye well and happy. I too have fled the rigors of the Priory as ye did, just as ye and I once discussed.”
She paused, dipping her pen again. As she returned it to the parchment, a large black blot of ink fell on the note and spread. She shrugged. Parchment was scarce and she had only been allowed one sheet of the precious material. The blemish would remain.
Mayhap it was an omen. A dark blot on the misleading words she was sending to her friend.
She pulled her woolen robes around her, and secured her cloak tighter. The night was long and the cold had sunk deep in her bones despite the flames blazing in the hearth.
After Davina had fled the Priory, Lyra had been sorely afraid her friend would fret if she did not hear that she, too, had escaped as she’d pledged to do.
While she’d aided Davina’s escape, praying that her friend had made it safely across to the Isle of Mull and beyond, the nunnery was her sanctuary and she had no inclination to venture beyond what she knew.
When she’d been brought there soon after her beloved father’s death, she’d been told it was to keep her safe, as there were those who would take her as a betrothed for one simple reason. As the sole heir to her father, she had inherited the castle and all the clan lands.
She had been warned there was at least one ruthless and cruel man who would stop at nothing to seize her, force her into marriage to steal her inheritance.
Remaining locked away from the world was a small price to pay for escaping a man who would use her as a tool to furnish his greed
Returning to her letter, she dipped the quill again.
I am so happy to have escaped the convent as ye did, me dear friend. There is nae need fer ye tae return, as ye promised, tae help set me free.”
She had been happy to assist Davina to escape, as she knew her friend suffered mightily at the hands of the old Prioress, who, for some reason which she could never fathom, had held a strange and cruel hatred for her friend.
Since Mother Una had taken on the role of Prioress, life there had become much easier, although she understood that it was imperative to keep a close watch on Lyra’s safety. The threat had never lessened, despite the passing years.
She bent her head again, scratching out lies. Her letter would keep her friend believing she was no longer at the nunnery, but had made her way safely to the mainland and her own people.
I will write again, me dearest, sweet Davina, and when the time is right for us tae meet again, I will send word.
She took care not to mention where exactly she now resided, musing that Davina would assume she was safely reunited with her clan.
A sigh escaped her lips. She had scant memories of her life before and she had no wish to return to it. Her life was at the Priory, where she believed she was safe from the predatory machinations of any man who wished to own her.
She felt no envy for Davina’s new life, whatever it might be, only pleasure at her friend’s newfound happiness. The letter Lyra had recently received had merely hinted at the many misadventures and dangers Davina had endured, but with the assurance she was happier than she had ever dreamed possible.
Mayhap one day she and Davina would meet again and Lyra would hear every tiny detail of what had become of her when she fled the Priory.
Yet, for all that, when the one letter she’d received closed with the words “I will come tae Iona and help ye escape if ye are still biding there,” the danger that Davina unknowingly posed to both lasses struck home.
If it became known that Davina was venturing to Iona seeking Lyra, not only would her friend court danger for herself, but she would risk bringing grave danger to all at the nunnery.
Lyra finished her note.
Until the happy day when we meet again, I shall wish ye good night and good morrow, from yer loving friend. Lyra
Her eyes misted with tears as she took a piece of dark blue sealing wax, heated it over the candle allowing it to drip upon the folded parchment, ensuring it was closed from prying eyes. She set her ring upon the molten wax so that Davina would recognize the seal and know the missive came from Lyra.
She bowed her head, signing the Cross, offering up a silent prayer for forgiveness for the lie she was telling her fried.
The following day, she would ask permission to send the letter, and it would be taken to the village by one of the servants, from there to begin its long journey across the sea to Kiessimul Castle, on the Isle of Barra, where her friend now resided.
A tiny part of her wished she could make the same journey, yet she would remain here, on Iona, exiled from her clan, until she was safe from the dark evil of the Laird Alexander MacDougall.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
Don’t miss your link for the whole book at the end of the preview.
Chapter One
Scotland 1310, the Isle of Iona
Lyra MacInnes eyed the evening repast laid before her on the sturdy oak table in the refectory at the Iona Priory. She sighed rather too loudly. “Fish again.”
Sister Morag, the elderly nun seated opposite tilted her head disapprovingly.
“We must be thankful fer what the Good Lord provides, Lyra.”
Both Lyra and Sister Morag dipped their heads, signing the Cross, before picking up their spoons.
Lyra hesitated, her appetite having fled at the sight of the watery stew, but the Sister spooned in a large mouthful.
Giving her meal a desultory glance Lyra downed her spoon. “I’m nae hungry this evening,” she said, although adding hastily, “but I am indeed grateful.”
Glancing up, her heart skipped a beat as she took in the sight of the old nun’s face. It was crumpled into an expression of pain, her mouth hung open, her eyes rolling in her head. She clutched her belly and doubled over, making a truly awful, gurgling sound.
Lyra leapt to her feet. By now the nun’s mouth was ringed with froth. It was clear that something very bad was happening.
“What is wrong, Morag? Are ye in pain?” Looking around helplessly for someone to come to Morag’s aid, Lyra screamed and the other nuns looked up in horror at the unfolding scene.
Suddenly, Morag let out a terrible groan, closed her eyes and sank slowly forward so that her head was on the table next to her platter, while her arms sagged by her side. Lyra grabbed one of the Sister’s icy-cold hands to prevent her from slipping to the floor.
Fortunately, at that moment Mother Una darted across the refectory, followed by the two nuns in charge of the infirmary.
“Quickly,” Lyra cried, holding Morag’s slumped figure to prevent her toppling onto the stone floor. “She’s taken ill.”
The Prioress rushed to Lyra’s side and snatched her dish away while the other two nuns took charge of Sister Morag.
After only a brief moment one of the nuns, Sister Fiona, looked up, her jaw tight, her shoulders hunched. “Dinnae eat anything. We must make haste. She appears tae have been poisoned.”
Mother Una turned an anguished face to Lyra. “Lyra, I fear yer enemy has found ye. Ye must away from here with all speed.” She grabbed Lyra’s hand. “Come. Leave the sisters tae care fer Morag. Purging is the only cure and it is nay something fit fer a fine-born lady such as yerself tae witness. Follow me now tae gather yer things and prepare wi’ all haste tae travel from this place.”
Without another word Lyra picked up the ends of her robe and dashed through the arched doorway following Mother Una along the stone walkway and up the stairs to her small sleeping space.
Her mind raced, blaming herself for what had befallen Sister Morag. The possibility that, even here, her enemy would find her, was never far from her mind and it seemed that, tonight, he had discovered her at last. Gentle Sister Morag had paid the price for protecting her.
That knowledge pierced her heart. The necessity for secrecy had been so great she had even lied to her dearest friend, Davina, who thankfully no longer lived in the priory. She had pretended to be a novice, unhappy under the stern guidance of the Prioress just as Davina had been. She had hidden the truth that she was an oblate of Saint Augustine secreted in the Priory since childhood in an effort to protect her.
As continuing to lie to her friend would have been too difficult, after Davina had escaped, she had sent her a letter to convince her she had left the Priory and was returning to her family. As long as Davina believed Lyra was safe, she would not put herself at risk by attempting to aid her escape.
As she was lost in thought Mother Una went to speak briefly to a man that worked in the gardens of the convent and then she was back by her side. “I must assume the poison was meant fer ye. We can be thankful it was nae intended tae claim yer life, or Sister Morag would have left this mortal realm by now.” She crossed herself with shaky hands.
She met Lyra’s gaze with troubled eyes. “Ye cannae waste another minute. ‘Tis time ye left us, now it is nay longer safe here.”
“Where am I tae go? What am I tae dae?” Lyra’s voice was husky with unshed tears.
“Gather yer belongings without delay, including the things that were brought here with ye fer safekeeping. The box wi’ yer maither’s brooch and necklace. Now that they ken where ye bide, neither yerself nor the others here under the Priory roof are safe from harm.” She busied herself, rolling a change of clothing into a small bundle “Ye ken the plan, they will expect ye on Mull.”
Lyra grabbed the small box containing her few treasures. Her heart was thumping and her mouth was dry. She licked her lips. She’d been with the nuns since she was little more than a bairn and all she knew was the nunnery. The thought of braving the unknown, outside world was almost as terrifying as being taken by her enemies.
“How am I tae find me way? I dinnae remember the Isle of Mull or the mainland. What if the lad I’m tae meet wi’ isnae there?”
Mother Una grew impatient. “’Tis nae time tae argue. If ye’re dead ye’ll nae be of use tae anyone.”
Lyra’s eyes misted and she bit back the threatening tears.
The Prioress’s voice softened and she reached a kindly hand to squeeze Lyra’s arm.
“I dinnae wish tae speak harshly tae ye lass, but if ye dinnae make haste to be out of here as soon as ye can, we’ll have little choice.” She raised her eyes to the sky. “It grows dark and ye’ll be able tae make yer way across tae the Isle of Mull under cover of night. I’ve sent one of our garden workers tae the shore tae find a fisherman tae row ye across.”
She turned to go. “I must check on Sister Morag. Dinnae waste time. I will see ye at the gate before ye leave. Dinnae fash. Ye will be just fine and everything will go according tae plan.” With that she darted off.
The clothes Mother Una had bundled for her to take were strange and unfamiliar. She was used to wearing only nun’s clothing consisting of a loose, woolen, black robe, which covered her from head to toe, with the veils and coverings of a nun. She swayed and clutched the bedpost to keep herself upright. This was the only home she was familiar with.
Florie, one of the younger novices, braided her fair hair before concealing it under the plain white veil. Lyra was reaching for her cloak when she heard raised voices and a terrible sound of splintering timber. This was followed by a series of piercing screams.
Heart hammering, she raced down the stairs and along the passageway, her cloak in her hands, with Florie close behind carrying her bundle and the carved wooden box containing her few treasures.
Sister Fiona came hurtling toward her, her robes and veil flying, a stream of blood coursing down her face from a cut on her cheek.
“Dinnae venture out there,” she said breathlessly. “There’s men… four of them. They are brutes. They’ve smashed their way through our heavy gate and are, even now, confronting Maither Una.”
Lyra’s hand flew to her mouth, while Florie tucked herself close behind her. “What dae they want?”
“They’ve named ye, Lyra, and they say they are tae take ye away.”
There was another stifled shriek and a second nun came tearing along the corridor towards them. “Quick, make haste, ye must come tae the other gate and make yer escape afore the men find ye here.”
“What of Maither Una?”
The nun groaned. “I am afeared fer her, Lyra. They have her arms pinned behind her back and are threatening her if she daesnae take them tae ye.” Her eyes widened in horror. “Already one of the brutes has slapped her and threatens worse.”
“Who are these men who are prepared tae violate this sacred place? Nay good, self-respecting Scottish warrior would dae such a thing.”
“I dinnae ken.” Sister Fiona shook her head. “They are dressed all in dun with darker britches and cloaks. They’ve nay plaid tae identify them.” She glanced at Lyra. “I dinnae wish tae afear ye, but they have the look of rough Gallowglass fighters. Soldiers for hire. Dangerous men with nay allegiance.”
Lyra hauled in a deep breath and let it flow out slowly, attempting to steady herself. She squared her shoulders. Although she was trembling all over, she held her head up and raced forward with Florie at her heels.
She was met with a horrifying scene when she arrived, breathless, at the entrance to the Priory. The large, studded, oaken gate had almost been torn from its iron and much of it lay in splinters beside the wall. Beside it, in a bloody heap, lay the bodies of the two men whose job it was to keep guard over the entrance to the Priory.
Mother Una stood stoically in the center of the stone-paved vestibule, a purple bruise already forming on her face where she’d been struck. Even so, she held herself straight, eyeing the four men down the length of her nose, a look of pure disdain etched on here proud features.
Florie squealed and dropped the bundle and the carved box she’d been carrying, turned on her heel and dashed back the way they’d come, leaving Lyra and Mother Una to face the men.
The Prioress swiveled as Lyra entered, her eyes widened and her teeth clamped her lower lip as if to hold in the words she wished to speak. She gave an all but imperceptible nod, darting her eyes toward the men.
Terrified, Lyra pressed forward despite the clear warning, praying she could divert the men’s attention from Mother Una.
Mother Una screamed. “Run, Lyra, dinnae let these brutes take ye.”
The men exchanged glances and one of the ruffians stepped forward, a grin on his coarse features half obscured by a shaggy, red, beard. He licked his lips. “If ye’re Lyra, ye’re tae come wi’ us.”
Lyra swiveled and made a frantic dash for the passageway, Red-Beard striding after her. She shrieked helplessly as he seized her arm in his rough grip.
He grunted a laugh and turned to the other three men who were standing by, grinning. “We’ll have some fun wi’ this one. She’s a right beauty.”
He turned back to Lyra, his eyes raking her with a hungry expression.
She shook her head summoning every scrap of courage she could. “I’ll nae travel wi’ ye. This is me home and I’ll nae leave it.”
The man merely laughed. He stepped forward and with what seemed like one movement of his giant hand, slapped Mother Una hard across her face, tightening his iron grip on Lyra’s arm.
Lyra struggled, raking Red-Beard’s arm with the sharp nails of her free hand. This seemed to amuse him even more and he grabbed her with his two hands and cruelly yanked her arms behind her back.
She bit down hard on her lower lip to prevent herself from crying out. There was no way she would give these savages the satisfaction of seeing her fear and pain.
“Ye’ll come wi’ us. Make it easy. Dinnae resist.”
Lyra pshawed loudly. “I willnae go wi’ the likes of ye.”
He rasped a laugh. “Good. Ye’re a feisty one. I enjoy holding a struggling lass. There’s more pleasure in it fer me.”
At that moment Lyra’s furious rage overcame the fear and trepidation that was almost too much to bear, and with blood running hot in her veins she spat a response at the barbarian.
“Dinnae touch me, ye son-of-a-low-worm. Ye smell rank as a fox’s den and ye look like… like…” She was almost lost for words. With his shaggy hair and his dirty red beard, she could only conjure the image of a Highland cow. But they were animals she was fond of.
“Ye’ve the appearance of a moldy bale of hay.” She gave a satisfied snort having found the image she sought.
“Enough.” The man gave her arms an extra twist upward. This time she couldn’t suppress her cry of pain as he dragged her toward the ruined gate. While she struggled, he simply slapped at her as if she was nothing more than a troublesome midge.
As he pushed her through the entrance, she writhed violently against the man whose grip never loosened.
“Let me go, ye piece of filth,” she yelled, to no avail. She resolved to say nothing more, as it was clear her struggles amused him.
The other three men gathered around, each of them leering at her and licking their lips in a manner that disgusted her. One of them reached a hand and pawed at her breasts through the fabric of her tunic and kirtle, causing her to shriek loudly.
With that, Red-Beard hoisted her in his arms as if she was nothing more than a sack of barley, and flung her over his shoulder.
She beat helplessly with her boots to his chest and her fists to his back, despairing that these men were taking her to an uncertain fate.
And then a sudden shout caught her by surprise. “Put down the lass,” came a deep, commanding voice. “Have ye ruffians nay ears tae hear what she says. She daesnae want tae go wi’ ye.”
Chapter Two
Cursing loudly, the man who was holding Lyra on his shoulder broke his stride. He flung her to the ground and reached for the axe he carried in his belt, while she struggled to her feet, her heart pounding.
“And who d’ye think ye are?” He snarled as two men strode forward and faced Red-beard and his men, preventing them from passing.
“We’re the men who will prevent yer kidnapping plan. Mayhap ye’ll ne’er find out who we are.” The man who spoke was as tall as Red-beard and almost as broad, but rather than the appearance of a shaggy beast, he was clad in a great kilt of fine woolen twill woven in a red and green plaid. His hair, black as a raven’s wing, reached his shoulders, and his eyes, shooting fire at Red-beard, were the gray-blue of a stormy sea. There was something about the man that drew Lyra’s attention, yet at the same time, his fierceness filled her with trepidation. One thing was certain – he was a handsome man, captivating in his brutality.
Each of the newcomers drew their claymore, hefting them in strong hands, prepared to fight.
It was clear these two, even though outnumbered, were skilled warriors, while the bunch of gallowglasses, lacking skill, relied on nothing more than their sheer size, strength, and brute force.
Lyra clenched her hands in terror, yet she could not tear her eyes away from what was unfolding before her. The four hulking gallowglasses launched themselves with a series of grunts and guttural mutterings at the two stalwart warriors blocking their path.
It took very little time and even less effort from the two warriors before two of the ruffians lay badly injured in the grass, groaning and clutching at their wounds, while blood flowed freely, turning the green grass red.
One of the remaining pair hurled himself at the second of the two warriors, holding his axe up high with two hands. Lyra flinched, her heart jumping like a jack-in-the-box as he brought down the axe with a mighty blow aimed at the head of the second of the two warriors.
But the lad was too quick. He feinted to the left and, leaning to the right, brought his claymore up under his opponent’s ribcage as swift as an arrow, piercing his heart.
With a deathly grunt, the brute toppled like a fallen tree, to lie unmoving at the warrior’s feet.
Meanwhile, Red-Beard was locked in battle with the tall, gray-eyed warrior. By now the barbarian was clearly tiring, swinging his battle-axe with less and less strength, failing with each attempt to land a blow. Every time he brought his weapon down, the warrior skipped nimbly out of the way.
The two men circled each other, Red-Beard’s face drawn into a terrible snarl. The other warrior maintained his calm, watching, parrying each wild swing of the axe, waiting for his moment to strike.
Although Lyra’s stomach roiled at the bloodshed and she trembled uncontrollably, she was strangely excited, hearing only the sounds of steel upon steel and the grunts and heavy breathing of the men. That these two warriors had come to her rescue just as she was despairing at her captivity, was surely meant to be. Her heart was in her mouth as she prayed for the victory of the tall, dark-haired warrior.
To her unbounded relief he took his advantage when it came, thrusting a fierce claymore through his opponent’s belly. Red-beard sank to his knees, blood spurting and, with a loud groan, he fell face forward and lay still.
It was over.
The two warriors hastily wiped the blood from their weapons and the slightly taller one of the pair turned to Lyra and bowed from the waist as calmly as if this was a mere Sunday afternoon pleasantry. She marveled at the cool way he had dispatched two men to meet their Maker, while her heart was hammering at what she’d been witness to.
“I am Tòrr MacKinnon. At yer service, lass. Ye’ve naught tae fear from these four unholy miscreants now.”
He turned to the other tall lad who also bowed. But where Tòrr was elegant, the second man was burly, his shoulders wide. “Me companion is named Edmund Sinclair.”
Still trembling, Lyra studied the two men. Both were good to look upon in their own way, although she had seen few men during her years in the Priory to make comparisons. Edmund’s strong face was marred by a scar that travelled from his temple to his jaw while Tòrr’s features were fine-boned, unblemished and aristocratic. Truth be told, there was something in Tòrr’s face that appealed to her more than Edmund’s, despite his fierce frown.
Hauling in a deep, steadying, breath, she curtsied, “I thank ye kindly fer yer valor. I dinnae ken who these wretches were, yet I feared fer me life when they took me.”
At that moment Mother Una came darting from the gate where she’d remained while the fighting took place. She carried the carved box containing Lyra’s precious items and the bundle of clothing they had put together. She seemed to recognize the dark-haired man.
She squinted, taking in the warrior’s features, a flash of recognition in her eyes. “I believe ye’re the Laird Tòrr MacKinnon, are ye nae? I remember ye from many years past. Now ye’re grown and have earned a reputation.”
Tòrr nodded, gravely. “Aye. That is me name.” He gave a soft laugh. “And, I ken some have called me The Mad Laird. I came here fer a meeting with the Abbott Finguine, who is one of me kin. We had business at the Monastery.” He gestured toward the distant Abbey, further along the path. “We were making our way back tae the village of Baile Mòr, planning tae take a boat over tae Mull, when we came upon these ruffians.”
“I thank ye most kindly fer yer intervention. Without it, I fear this lass would have been dragged with them tae a terrible fate.” Mother Una reached for Lyra’s hand. “I beg ye tae take the Lady Lyra wi’ ye tae the Isle of Mull.”
Lyra gasped.
What is this? I’ve only barely escaped from those barbarians and now Maither Una wishes tae foist me on tae these strangers.
In despair, she turned to Mother Una who spoke but quiet enough for Lyra to be the one hearing the words. “Lyra, dinnae forget the plan we made and the steps ye were tae follow if ye were in danger and needed tae escape.
Lyra nodded, recalling the instructions she’d memorized long ago. She had to flee across the water to Fionnphort. At the tavern there she was to ask for a man named Thorfinn Comyn, who would help her return to her clan lands.
She squared her shoulders and looked up at the Laird Tòrr. “I dinnae wish tae travel wi’ ye.”
Tòrr dipped his head. “Dinnae fash, lassie. I’ve nay intention of taking ye away from Iona. I’ve nay need fer a nun at me castle. The priest who bides at Dùn Ara is a solitary soul who’d nae take kindly tae a young nun disturbing his solitude.”
Mother Una quickly intervened. “Ye dinnae understand, me laird. This lady is nae nun but an oblate who has been wi’ us since she was a bairn. Enemies of her family have sought her out.” Here Mother Una caught her breath, signing the Cross. “She is in grave danger now they’ve discovered where she bides. She raised pleading hands. “I implore ye tae take her wi’ ye tae safety on the isle of Mull.”
Lyra observed this with a sinking heart. If she was taken to Mull in the custody of the Laird Tòrr, how would she ever be able to make her way back to the mainland, to her clan? She huffed with indignation.
The laird bowed deferentially to Mother Una. “I regret I cannae be of assistance tae the lass, Maither. I am nay sailing back tae Dùn Ara, but travelling tae me home on horseback.”
He turned to go.
Mother Una was wringing her hands in desperation, while Lyra looked on with a measure of satisfaction. She could hardly be blamed if Laird Tòrr was the one to refuse to take her.
“Look!” Mother Una cried out suddenly in great alarm, her hand pointing toward the waters of the Sound of Iona that separated Iona from the Isle of Mull. Although the light was fading and darkness would soon fall, it was clearly visible from where they stood. A boat was making its way toward the shore. “There are more of those evil men coming here. If ye abandon her she’ll be taken.”
Catching sight of the boat, Lyra felt a stab of ice through her heart.
Rowing hard against the tide were another eight men, dressed similarly to the four gallowglasses who had been defeated by Tòrr and his companion.
He groaned. “I see them. Ye’re right, there will be nay protection fer the lass.” He turned to Edmund who was nodding. “We must take her wi’ us. There’s nay choice fer I’ll nay leave the lass tae be taken by those vicious barbarians.” He reached a hand to seize Lyra’s arm. “Come, there’s nay time tae waste.”
Before she could so much as protest or even bid farewell to the Priory, Mother Una thrust her belongings into her arms and waved her away. “Go, quickly. Be safe. I shall send word tae yer clan of yer whereabouts, me dear.”
With that, the three of them hurtled down the path heading toward the village.
They raced along the shore; Tòrr held out a supporting hand to Lyra as she stumbled on the rocks, but she shook it away.
“Hurry lass,” Edmund urged. “We must reach our fisherman before the others reach the shore.”
Lyra ran as fast as she was able, Tòrr carrying her bundle and the carved box. Still her skirts tangled around her knees and the rocks underfoot caused her to tread too slowly. She felt as if she was a great burden to these men, a prisoner they’d been forced to take and protect.
When at last they came upon the boat they sought, the fisherman Tam who was to row them across the sound was waiting nearby. Lyra refused to stand by submissively, but bent her back along with the others as they hastily pushed the boat from the shore. Once they were in deeper water and Tam plied the oars, she took her place beside them without a word.
It was only as she watched the disappearing shore of Iona and the distant stone walls of the Priory, gulls wheeling overhead, that Lyra’s perilous situation truly dawned on her. Little did she know when the day had dawned, what would befall her by nightfall. Even her worst nightmare would not have prepared her for this day. Now, here she was, in the company of two strangers, fleeing from the only place she’d ever felt safe, having narrowly escaped being poisoned and kidnapped. She was heading for an uncertain future in a place she knew nothing about, except that it was taking her even further from her clan lands.
Trying to catch her breath, Lyra looked along the beach where the gallowglasses were just pulling their boat into the shore. As they reached it, to her horror, she saw one of them pointing in their direction. Several dun-clad men started along the beach heading their way.
“Quick, quick.” Her breath caught in her throat and her heart was pounding so hard she almost expected it to jump from her chest. She moaned as the men headed toward them at a run, shouting words she could not make out.
Tam, the fisherman, pulled hard on his oars while both Tòrr and Edmund unsheathed their claymores and hefted the heavy swords firmly in readiness. As the little craft skimmed across the water Lyra saw the men who were hunting her pushing their boat into the deep water.
“Can ye go faster?” Lyra tried to draw in a breath, but it seemed locked in her throat.
While she might escape, what would become of Mother Una and the sisters, now so unprotected in the nunnery. If the first four men had not hesitated to commit sacrilege by forcing their way into the nunnery and, even worse, striking Mother Una, she expected the others would show no mercy.
She grew cold, her fingers and toes tingled, her head was suddenly dizzy and her hands were stricken with a sudden, uncontrollable, shaking.
Edmund looked at her, a frown creasing his brow. “Are ye all right, lass?”
She shook her head, gasping, one hand clasping her chest as if to steady her heartbeat.
Tòrr caught her eye. “Dinnae fash, lass. We’re away. They’ll nae catch us now. Ye’re safe with us.”
He spoke kindly, but he did not understand. Her fear was not for herself, but for the sisters and Mother Una. She struggled to speak, but the words simply wouldn’t leave her lips.
They were still some way from the shore when Tam put up his oars. “Ye’ll need to slip over the side now. ‘Tis low tide and I cannae take the boat further in for fear of being jagged on those rocks.” He pointed to a row of sharp rocks exposed by the tide.
Edmund leaped over the side, the water well above his knees. Tòrr passed Lyra’s bundle and the wooden box over and Edmund began making his way toward the shore with her belongings under his arm.
Tòrr was tucking his kilt into his belt, paying her little attention. “There’s naething fer it, but fer us tae go into the water and wade tae shore. Tie up those robes, or else ye’ll be wet through.”
Lyra was still striving to draw breath and all she could do was shake her head while her fingers fumbled with her voluminous clothing. Suddenly it all seemed too much.
“Lass, we must away.” Tòrr threw one leg over the side of the boat, tipping it alarmingly, as he stepped into the water.
The boat righted itself and a shaking Lyra rose to her feet, still gasping, struggling to breathe evenly. She took a small step and raised one foot onto the edge of the boat which again threatened to tip. She gave a small, alarmed cry. Tòrr, who was standing in thigh-high water, urged her impatiently.
“Just slide yer leg over, lass, the water is nay deep. “Be quick if ye dinnae wish to be captured again.” He looked up at the sound of shouting from across the water. “They’re nae far behind us.”
Almost out of her wits by now, Lyra slowly lowered herself over the side into the dark water. As both her legs went in, she was suddenly afraid and clutched at the side of the boat, causing it to tip. She fell back, flailing, her feet scrabbling in vain for the seabed as the water rushed over her. Taking in a large, choking, gulp of salty water, she disappeared under the surface of the murky sea.
It was so dark. In her panic she quite forgot to hold her breath and the water rushed into her nostrils. She thrashed her arms and kicked her feet but she was weak and dizzy and it was impossible to tell which way would take her up to the surface and which direction would drag her to the bottom.
Her chest was burning as it filled with water. In one last desperate attempt, she managed to fling her arms wide, opening her mouth in a silent scream as the world became distant. She closed her eyes.
This is the story of Gillian, an adventurous English lady who finds herself captured by a mysterious and alluring Highlander. This Highlander will do whatever it takes to save his people from hunger, even abduct the daughter of his enemy. But life seldom goes as planned. What will happen when the Highlander starts falling for Gillian? And will her feelings or her logic prevail in this peculiar turn of events?
This is the story of Julia, an intelligent English lady who runs away to escape her woes and finds herself in the keep of an enticing Highlander. This Highlander, as handsome as he may be, has serious economic troubles, and only a miracle can save him. But perhaps one's answer is closer than he thinks. How will he help her face the past that is haunting her? And how will she save him?
This is the story of Gale, an adventurous English lady who runs away to escape her murderous mother and finds herself in the company of an alluring Highlander. There she is called to change her ways, and he helps her see the world from a different point of view. But her past is catching up with her. How will she elude her mother? And will this be the only obstacle in their relationship?
There was nothing in the world that could stop Kathleen Mackintosh from getting what she wanted—nothing, perhaps, other than her parents’ stubbornness.
How long had she spent in that room fighting with them? How many times had they gone through the same thing, circling the topic again and again? By now, she was exhausted, desperate to find a solution, but while she was trying to work on one, her parents simply refused to even listen.
“Fenella is me best friend!” she reminded them, not for the first time that day. It was a point she had repeated time and time again ever since the very start of their argument, only to be ignored every single time. “If I dinnae go tae her weddin’, then who will?”
“Her other friends,” her father said, entirely unaffected by Kathleen’s ceaseless pleas. Those who knew them both often liked to joke that she had inherited not only her father’s looks, with her blue eyes and pale complexion, but also his obstinacy and his single-minded desire to do as he pleased. “Surely, the lass has other friends than ye.”
Of course, she did. Fenella was a lovely young woman, kind and full of warmth, so people flocked to her, just like Kathleen had. And yet, none of them were as close to her as Kathleen and none of them could be there for her like she could at such a difficult time.
Because it was a tragedy. Never before in her life had Kathleen felt the ripples of another’s despair as much as when she read Fenella’s letter inviting her and her family to her wedding. The first piece of paper she had unfolded was nothing but an invitation. It was lavish and written in a loopy script, just as one would expect from the daughter of Laird Stewart of Appin. The second paper, tucked carefully among the folds, was a letter addressed to her, telling Kathleen of Fenella’s feelings regarding this marriage alliance—and they were anything but positive.
Kathleen wanted to be there for her; she was going to do anything it took to make it to Castle Stalker.
If only me parents would understand!
Her father’s small study felt suffocating as she paced back and forth, her footsteps dampened by the plush carpet under her feet. As the advisor of his brother, Laird Alec Mackintosh, her father spent most of his time in that cramped room, behind his large oak desk. Kathleen, too, had spent many of her days there as a child. She used to spend her evenings buried in the stacks of books even when she couldn’t read them. And later, once she could, she did not care for their contents, as most of them had to do with war and clan matters. Sometimes, she would sit by his feet and listen idly as he and her uncle discussed their days over a cup of wine.
But those days were long gone. Now, at twenty-three years of age, it had been almost a decade since she had stopped sitting by his feet and had started to stand before him, arms crossed, arguing with him instead.
Why must we always argue? This is such a simple thing!
Even if they didn’t want to attend the wedding, then surely, they could send Kathleen. If anything, that would be the proper thing to do; someone from Clan Mackintosh had to be there, considering that the Stewarts were their close allies.
“Kathleen, be reasonable,” her mother, Ilyssa, said from where she stood by her father’s side like a sentinel. Her hand rested on the back of her father’s chair in that way it always did when they were trying to present a united front to her. “We are at war. We cannae simply leave the castle when we are at war. And ye most certainly cannae go on yer own. The Campbells willnae hesitate tae have ye hanged if ye fall in their hands. Ye ken they crave tae solidify the Campbells as the most powerful clan in the Highlands.”
“We’re nae at war,” Kathleen said with a roll of her eyes.
“We very well could be soon,” her father said and the serious tone he assumed was enough to make her snap her mouth shut.
Kathleen had never experienced war in her lifetime. Skirmishes, yes, and conflicts that seemed like they could lead to war if the clans involved did not proceed with care, but never a war. She had seen other clans ravaged by it, though. She had seen the effects it could have, even if she had never experienced it herself.
And she knew it was no laughing matter.
“Our forces are risin’, but that only means our enemies are more eager than ever tae strike,” her father continued, tone dripping with bitterness. “The Campbells want tae eradicate Jacobite influence. I cannae explain tae ye the danger ye will face if ye leave these walls. It’s safe here, in the castle. Nay one in the family will go anywhere. All o’ us are stayin’ right where we are whether ye like it or nae, lass, an’ I willnae hear another word on the matter!”
“But—”
“I said nae another word!”
“But Faither—”
“Quiet!”
“Nay!” Kathleen shouted, louder than her father so that she would be heard over him even if he continued to try and silence her. “Why will ye nae even listen tae me? I understand! I understand it is dangerous but Fenella needs me! Here! See fer yerself.”
As she spoke, she tossed the bunched-up letter, which had remained crumpled in her hand ever since she had read it, onto her father’s desk. With a sigh, her father reached for it and read it silently, her mother doing the same over his shoulder.
When he placed it back down, he rubbed a hand wearily over his face and then up his short, golden hair. Her mother sighed, shaking her head ever so slightly, the movement almost imperceptible.
“Poor lass,” she said. “Alas, she isnae the first or the last, but at least she has her family. Dinnae fash, Kathleen. Fenella will be fine.”
“Ye dinnae ken that,” said Kathleen through gritted teeth. Her mother had been lucky enough to wed a man like her father, but not everyone had the same luck. While she didn’t know the man Fenella was about to wed, she also wouldn’t be surprised if he was unkind or even cruel to her.
Drawing in a deep breath, Kathleen made her way to the small window by her father’s desk and gazed outside at the Mackintosh lands that stretched under the hill where the castle stood. The frost had not yet begun to thaw and the sky was the steel gray of a sword, the chilly air as sharp as its blade. It was as if the war her parents feared so terribly was being foretold. It was as if the land itself was preparing for it.
“I’m nae askin’ ye tae go alone,” Kathleen said, her gaze never leaving the sprawling valley outside. “If anythin’, I expected that everyone would wish tae come. The Stewarts are our allies. Why would ye nae wish tae come with me?”
“We cannae leave the castle unprotected,” her father pointed out. “The Stewarts are our allies, aye, but they also understand that, if it truly comes to war, one cannae abandon one’s home.”
“Kieran an’ Devon, then,” said Kathleen in an attempt to bargain with her father. “They could accompany me.”
Her cousins were capable warriors and she had no doubt they could protect her from any harm that could befall her on their way. They would be an important asset to the clan in case of war, but surely, her father and her uncle could spare them for a few days. Just long enough for them to head to Clan Stewart, attend the wedding, and come back.
“Dae ye nae listen tae anythin’ I am sayin’?” her father demanded, his head falling back as his hand curled into a tight fist where it rested on the desk among a mess of documents. “Alec willnae let his lads go anywhere when the clan is under threat. An’ I willnae let ye leave this castle anyway. Even if fer now there are only threats, and nay serious actions are being taken. I’m nae takin’ any chances.”
“It is only fer two weeks!” Kathleen said, her head whipping around to stare at her father in disbelief. “An’ most o’ those days, I’ll be in Castle Stalker, well away from harm!”
There was no safer place for her to be than Castle Stalker. From her previous visits there, Kathleen had seen the natural fortification of the keep, which stood on a tidal islet. When the tide was high, no invading army could cross—not without boats, at least, and no one would be foolish enough to do such a thing. Not only that, but the Stewarts had a strong army, just as strong as Clan Mackintosh’. Her parents’ concerns were not unfounded, but they were, in her opinion, exaggerated to say the least.
“The travel tae Castle Stalker is three, four days,” her father said. He was red-faced now, the blood rushing to his head with every passing moment, the volume of his voice rising along with it. “That is plenty o’ time fer ye tae encounter someone from Clan Campbell an’ if ye dae, then ye’re dead. They ken who we are. One look at ye an’ they’ll ken ye’re me daughter.”
“Bran,” her mother said, the hand that rested on the back of the chair now moving to her father’s shoulder. “Calm yerself.”
“How can I calm meself?” her father demanded. “She’s just like ye, Ilyssa. Too… too free-spirited!”
“Ach, but ye like that about me,” her mother said with a small smile, one her father easily returned, only for Kathleen to roll her eyes at them.
“So it is fine fer maither tae be like this, but nae fer me?”
In Kathleen’s mind, that was a fair question, but it didn’t seem to be so for her father. He gave her an unimpressed look, one that only served to infuriate her even more, while her mother took on that air of wisdom—only to say the one thing Kathleen was tired of hearing.
“Ye’re our daughter,” her mother said softly, leaving her father’s side to walk around the desk and approach her. She wrapped her fingers around her arm and pulled her into an embrace, one Kathleen returned reluctantly. “Once ye have yer own bairns, ye will understand why we fear fer ye so.”
She didn’t have children and so she could not argue with that logic, but she knew it to be false. It was one thing to care about one’s child, to want to keep it safe, and it was another to hold it imprisoned in a keep out of fear.
Kathleen couldn’t argue with either of them any longer, though. Sooner or later, her parents would put an end to the conversation, even if it remained unresolved. They had never listened, and she doubted that they would start to listen now.
With a deep sigh, Kathleen sagged in her mother’s arms, letting her eyes fall shut. “Alright,” she said. “Alright, I will write tae Fenella.”
But nae tae tell her I willnae be attendin’ the weddin’. They can say what they want. I will be by her side.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
