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Me darling Arne,I once dared tae dream that ye could be me forever, that our love might defy even fate. But I must face the truth I have tried so hard tae deny: our paths were never meant tae stay intertwined.

This is Thorsten, our son. He was born two months ago, on the 20th of March, while ye were away fighting fer us. I named him after yer braither. He has yer strength, yer eyes. Every time I look at him, I see ye, and me heart breaks anew because of what I must dae.

More than anything, I wanted ye tae come home safely tae meet him, tae hold him, and tae feel the joy of being his faither. I dreamed of us raising him together. Being the family I never had. But dreams are fragile things, easily shattered by the cruel hand of reality. Me past has finally caught up with me, and I have nay choice but to leave.

There are truths about me ye dae nae ken, secrets I’ve kept buried deep. I am nae the woman ye believe me tae be, and fer that, I am deeply sorry. I never meant tae deceive ye, but the person ye love is a lie. And now, the danger that follows me threatens ye and our son. If I stay, I put both of ye at risk, and I cannot bear the thought of any harm coming tae ye or Thorsten.

I ken ye will hate me fer leaving, fer abandoning ye and our child. Ye have every right tae be angry, tae curse me name, and tae never forgive me. But ken that I am doing this because I love ye both more than me own life. I am leaving tae protect ye, tae keep ye safe from the shadows that chase me. I have nay other choice, Arne. If there were another way, I would take it, but there is none.

Please, take care of Thorsten. Love him with all the strength I ken ye have. Raise him with the kindness in yer heart.

And please, dinnae search fer me. It is too dangerous, and ye will never be able tae find me.

Kiss Thorsten fer me, and try tae remember that I love ye both, always.

Forever in me heart,

Maeve

Chapter One

May 1307, Mhairi’s House o’ Pleasure

The village of Muircross, near Castle MacLeod, the Western Scottish Highlands

 

The golden spring evening cast a deceptively warm glow over the grey granite walls of the substantial house which stood on the outskirts of the village. It nestled alone on an incline above a lane lined with towering pines and bushes of thorny, bright yellow gorse.

From the outside it seemed perfectly respectable, with lace curtains at the windows, but looks could be deceptive, and people from miles around knew very well that it was a house of ill repute.

Each night, as the sun went down, men would start arriving, tapping at the door to be let in. They came alone or in groups, drunk or sober, on foot, on horseback, or in carriages that marked the occupants’ wealth and status. All paying customers were welcomed by the painted courtesans who dwelt within Mhairi’s House o’ Pleasure.

At first, there had been nothing remarkable about the group of riders, five men, dusty from the road, who had come earlier that evening, and were currently being entertained in the downstairs rooms. There, the customers and the courtesans consorted, flirted, made free with whisky and wine, gorged themselves on fine foods, danced, and laughed, all under the watchful eye of the madam. Later, they would couple up, to disappear to one of the upstairs rooms.

Raven had thought little of it when the riders entered. She had been working at Mhairi’s for just over a year as a maid, having adopted the name of Maeve, and she was used to the comings and goings of the clientele. She split her duties between cleaning and, at busy times, helping in the kitchen out the back.

She was rushing to and fro between the main room and the kitchen with the orders when the men entered. They were greeted by Morag, the madam, who showed them to a table. Almost immediately Raven heard their leader asking if anyone knew of the whereabouts of a woman they were searching for.

“Her name is Raven MacNeil, but she might be goin’ by another name,” he said gruffly.

The bottom suddenly fell out of Raven’s world. Her mind went blank, and her breath caught in her throat.

The man went on, “She’s in her early twenties, slender, with long black hair, a pale complexion, and light brown eyes.”

Starting to shake, Raven accidentally spilled some of the ale she was carrying on the floor, attracting the attention of those nearby, including Morag and the leader of the riders.

Morag turned away from the man and directed a warning look at Raven. “Ye’d best go and clean that up quickly, Maeve, afore somebody slips up,” she said calmly. The man glanced dismissively at the clumsy maid, who kept her head down as she scurried back to the kitchen. Raven just had time to hear the conversation continue when Morag turned back to the man and said thoughtfully, “Black hair and brown eyes, did ye say?”

“Aye.”

Morag shook her stiff curls. “Nay, we’ve nae girls like that workin’ here, Sir. Shame though, for they’d be worth their weight in gold,” she said with an air of regret. “Nae many girls with black hair up here, so I am sure she would make me a good penny”. Then, with total aplomb, she swept her professional smile over his colleagues and asked in a honeyed voice, “Now, what would ye gentlemen like tae drink?”

By that time, Raven was in the kitchen, her heart pounding, limbs trembling, struggling to draw air into her lungs. Morag appeared a few moments later. She spoke quietly to one of the kitchen maids, who immediately went to clean up the spilled beer in the main room. When she has gone, the madam pushed the kitchen door closed, pulled Raven aside, and whispered urgently, “Ye heard them, lass, they’re lookin’ fer ye.”

“I-k-ken,” Raven whispered back, her voice shaking. “I h-have to leave right away, Morag. ’Tis too dangerous fer us tae stay here now.” Her heart continued thudding loudly in her chest as she stared at the door, painfully aware of the peril that lurked only feet away on the other side.

Morag nodded. “Go fetch the bairn and go up tae yer room. I’ll meet ye there shortly.” With that, she returned to her duties in the main room. Without saying anything to anyone else, Raven slipped out to the hallway and ran quietly up the staircase to her room.

Minutes later, in the small chamber which had been her refuge for the last year and a few months, Raven clutched her sleeping son protectively to her breast with one arm. Her voice thick with tears, she kept up a constant stream of quiet reassurance as she hurried back and forth between the small wardrobe and the large bag which lay open on the bed, hastily placing her few, necessary possessions inside with one hand.

“It’s all going tae be fine, wee Thorsten, me darlin’, just ye wait and see,” she told him through her stifled sobs, pressing kisses to his shock of pitch-black hair that was so like her own. “Ye’ll be better off without me. Ye have a good faither from a good family. He’ll look after ye. I cannae protect ye any longer, but ye’ll be safe with him.”

The hopeful words belied the terrible feeling that her whole world had suddenly been ripped apart. A mixture of fear and trepidation coursed through her as she began stuffing Thorsten’s tiny clothes into another small bag.

“I dinnae want tae leave ye, bonny lad, but ’tis fer the best, ye’ll see. And one day, we’ll be together again. I’ll find a way.”

Through her tears, she silently prayed that would be the case. But deep down, she knew that the vengeful man who had sent the riders to find her would not give up until they did. And if he found out about Thorsten’s existence, he would not allow him to live. The fearful knowledge sat in her belly like a cold, dead weight. It was that, the fear for Thorsten’s life, that was keeping her from completely falling to pieces.

As she finished putting Thorsten’s things into the bag, she glanced over at the chess board on the table in the corner of the room. Just seeing it there and the memories it stirred increased the almost crushing pain in her chest. Outwardly, it was a simple chess board, yet for Raven, it was a symbol of all her hopes and dreams for a happy future, hopes and dreams which were now crumbling around her.

Now, it stood for everything and everyone she was about to lose, and never have again. She felt as though her heart was being torn into pieces.

The noises from the neighboring room grew in volume and intensity, shrieks and groans of two people rutting like beasts. Raven tried to shut it out and held her palms over Thorsten’s tiny shell-like ears, lest the noise wake him from his peaceful slumber. The shrieks increased until the woman screamed as she reached her climax, or pretended to, shortly followed by an exhausted groan from the man.

“Ye’ll nae be sorry tae leave that behind, I’ll wager, lassie,” said Morag, coming quietly into the room and jerking her thumb at the wall. The old madam was wearing a gaudy gown and had a hard, painted face to suit her hard life. But when she smiled at Raven, the kindness of her true nature shone out from beneath the thick layer of powder and rouge.

“I nae sure I willnae miss it, Morag,” Raven replied with shaking voice, ineffectually sniffing back her tears. “At least while I could hear it, I kent we were safe.” She summoned a weak smile despite the terror gripping her, urging her to be gone. “I’m packed and ready tae leave now,” she added, nodding at the bags on the bed.

“Ach, ye dinnae have tae hurry so much, lassie. The girls have promised tae keep the men that are askin’ questions about ye busy fer hours, so ye have plenty of time. Besides, I’ve already told them ye’re nae here, and I’ve given them some information that’ll lead them astray.”

While she spoke, she came over and stroked Raven’s hair then gently kissed Thorsten’s head, looking at him with the doting eyes of a grandmother. “Are ye certain ye need tae dae this? Ye ken we can hide ye both fer as long as ye need, and nay man will ever find ye. Ye’ll be safe,” Morag said coaxingly, clearly hoping Raven would agree to stay.

Raven sobbed as she said thickly, “I want tae stay, Morag, but ’tis too dangerous. I fear fer me son’s life if those men find me, and they’ll never give up. If Thorsten and I stay here, he would never be safe.” She looked at Morag, her eyes blurred by tears, adding, “Besides, ye’ve already done so much fer us, and I dinnae want tae put ye or the girls in danger. Even lyin’ tae those men fer me just this once is puttin’ ye all at terrible risk.”

“Well, ’tis an awful shame,” Morag said, her lined forehead creasing further with obvious disappointment and worry. “We’ll miss ye, lass, and the wee man.”

Raven almost gave way under the weight of emotions coursing through her then. She hugged Thorsten’s small warm body close for comfort as she choked out,

“Ach, Morag, I’m gonnae miss ye, and the lasses as well. Ye’ve looked after us both so well, and I’ll never be able tae repay ye fer yer kindness. But if they’ve tracked me this far, I fear it’ll nae be long before they catch up with me. I have nae choice but tae run if I want tae save me son.”

“Ach, there’s naethin’ fer ye tae repay, hinny. We all wish we could dae more tae help ye.” Morag came closer and circled them with her arms, hugging them both tenderly.

“Ye’ve been a Godsend, Morag. I dinnae ken what I would have done without ye, givin’ me a job here and protectin’ me fer so long.” Raven’s stifled sobs of sorrow and gratitude wet the front of the older woman’s gown as they embraced, probably for the last time. For more than a year, the hard-faced, otherwise ruthless madam had been the closest thing to a mother she’d had, and Raven was loathe to leave her and her safe berth at the house.

When they finally drew apart, Morag held out her arms and said, “Here, let me hold him. This may be the last time I get the chance.”

I hope it isnae the last chance I have tae hold him too.

“I pray it willnae be, Morag, but I fear ye may be right. Ye’ve been as good as a grandmaither tae him while we’ve been here,” Raven said, carefully handing Thorsten over. She struggled to hold back her sorrow and panic as she hurriedly stuffed an extra shawl into the bag, a gift from Morag and the girls. Before she closed the bag, she went to the nightstand and took a letter from the drawer and put it inside.

Morag watched in grim silence as she cradled the sleeping baby. Then she asked, “Are ye sure there’s nay another way, lass? Is wee Thorsten’s faither nae back from the fightin’ yet?”

The question unleashed a fresh bout of sobbing from Raven, who felt her heart was being torn in two. Her voice shook as she answered, “Nay, but I think ’tis fer the best that he’s still away.” She had been working hard to convince herself of it. “If he were home, I dinnae think I could dae what I must. It would just make it more difficult tae leave, and that would put him and the bairn in danger.”

“That’s cruel indeed, lass. Me old heart goes out tae ye,” the madam murmured sadly, gazing down at the baby and stroking his mop of hair. “There’s nay mistakin’ the lad’s maither with that hair. ’Tis truly as black as a raven’s wing. But those bright blue eyes of his are his faither’s. He’s the perfect mixture of ye both.”

The words were like daggers stabbing at Raven’s already aching heart. A vision of Arne arose in her mind. The picture was as vivid as though he were standing next to her, as if she could reach out and touch him. She could see every detail of his powerful warrior’s body, the rough, masculine beauty of his features, his short, almost white-blond hair that she loved to run her fingers through, and his piercing blue gaze that glittered like sapphires in the sunlight whenever he looked at her.

The vision tore at her tortured soul. How can I leave him when I love him so much?

Suddenly, she clutched at her chest, finding it hard to breathe, let alone speak.

“Are ye alright, lassie?” Morag asked anxiously, coming closer and putting a hand on Raven’s shoulder. Raven laid her own over the top of it, taking comfort in the old woman’s reassuring touch. Slowly, she caught her breath.

“Aye, as alright as I can be,” she replied, unable to stop the trembling of her limbs but mentally steeling herself. “I have tae be strong, tae be able tae dae what I have tae dae.” She kissed Thorsten’s cheek as he lay sleeping in Morag’s arms, leaving the traces of her tears behind.

Finally, she managed to say, “Aye, he has his faither’s eyes. Arne will be proud of him.” Will he be reminded of me every time he looks at Thorsten’s hair?

“There’s nay time fer mourning,” she added, pulling herself up to her full height. “I must go. Help me with the bags, will ye, Morag, please?”

Morag nodded and handed Thorsten back to his mother. “I’ve had them prepare a horse fer ye, with enough provisions tae last ye a few days. There’s a bedroll and some blankets too, tae keep ye warm at night.” Morag easily hoisted the bags onto her shoulder.

“Thank ye,” Raven replied, cuddling Thorsten close as they finally left the room.

On quiet feet, they sped along the dimly-lit hallways and corridors of the sprawling house. Raven silently bid a last goodbye to the strange mixture of luxury and shabbiness she had become used to. The cries and grunts of business being transacted echoed from several of the rooms as they passed. While they walked, they continued their conversation in a whisper.

“Why d’ye nae just tell Arne about the men chasin’ ye? He could protect ye, could he nae? His braither is the laird hereabouts, the fabled Viking Lord,” Morag said as they hurried down the staircase to the lower levels.

“Aye, he would, but that’s exactly why I dinnae want tae tell him,” Raven explained, her fear and sorrow once more threatening to overwhelm her as she considered it for the hundredth time. “If I told Arne about all this, I ken he’d dae his best tae protect me me and Thorsten. But the man from me past who seeks me is very powerful and brutal. Tae cross him could cost Arne his life, and Thorsten’s as well. ’Tis safer fer them both if Arne daesnae ken the truth.”

“Aye, I suppose, if ye think ‘tis fer the best, lass,” Morag reluctantly agreed.

Eventually, they emerged from a rear door into a scrubby courtyard. There, with a feeling of tense relief, Raven saw a horse, already saddled, waiting for them. The actual physical evidence of their enforced flight brought more tears, but she would not let herself falter in her resolve and dashed them aside with the back of her hand.

“Ach, why is this so hard tae dae when I ken this is the best thing fer the baby and fer Arne?” she murmured as she handed the baby to Morag to hold while she mounted the horse. “I just have tae keep tellin’ mesel’ that they’ll both be so much better off without me in their lives.”

Morag handed the baby up to her, and Raven secured him to her chest with her shawl. Then she looked down at Morag and held out her hand. Morag took it, her hard brown eyes softening with tears as they squeezed each other’s fingers and shared a final affectionate look.

“Thank ye fer everythin’, Morag, and thank the girls fer me and say goodbye fer the both of us. Ye’ve given me a safe haven when I needed it most, and I’ll always be grateful tae ye.” She withdrew her hand from the madam’s and pulled some money from her pocket and held it out. “Here, take this, please. ’Tis little fer all ye’ve done fer me.”

Morag looked aghast for a moment and then shook her head vigorously and pushed Raven’s hand away. “Nay, lass, nay, I dinnae want it, and ye’ll need every penny of that fer yerselves. Put it back in yer pocket and keep it, hinny.”

Raven obeyed reluctantly, feeling she had taken so much more than she had given.

“Where are ye headin’?” the old woman asked.

“Well, first I must make sure that Thorsten is safe. After that, I have nay clue,” Raven replied. She gathered the reins, and the horse moved restlessly beneath her, as if eager to go.

“Goodbye, Morag. Take care of yersel’,” she said as she guided the horse from the courtyard, in the direction of the castle.

“Goodbye, and ye take care of yersel’, Maeve,” Morag called softly after her, waving her hand in farewell as tears began to fall from her eyes.

Raven turned slightly in the saddle and smiled warmly at the old madam through her tears. “Ye might as well use me real name now, Morag,” she said.

Morag gave a little hiccough of emotion, smiled back, and said, “Goodbye, Raven.”

The ride to Castle MacLeod through the darkness was under two miles from the village, and Raven knew the way by heart. The gathering of huge buildings that made up the castle loomed out of the dark against the sky like a colossus. The sight of it was both heartbreaking and comforting. She would be leaving little Thorsten there with his father, which was the heartbreaking part. The fact he would grow up safe and protected, part of the MacLeod clan, gave her a small modicum of cold comfort which enabled her to do what she knew she must.

All was quiet when she halted the horse a few hundred yards from the castle gates and carefully dismounted, trying not to wake Thorsten as she slid from the saddle. If he began crying, she might be discovered, and that was the last thing she wanted. Holding the baby to her chest, she untied the bag of his clothes from the saddle bag and took it with her as she crept silently to the gates themselves.

Forcing herself to go through the necessary motions, she propped the bag against the bottom of one of the mighty stone towers, then she reached inside her shawl and drew out a sealed letter. This she kissed and wedged atop of the clothes in the bag, making sure it would not blow away. She wondered how Arne would react when he saw his name inscribed on the front in her looping handwriting. He would know at once that it was from her.

“Oh, Lord help me tae dae this,” she murmured, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her resolve as she cuddled little Thorsten, peppering his head with gentle kisses, breathing in the lovely smell of him one last time. “Ye’ll be safe here, me darlin’. I dinnae want tae leave ye, but I have nae choice. Yer maither loves ye with all her heart, sweet lad, just ye remember that. Ye’re better off without me.”

With her vison blurred by fresh tears, she tidied the baby’s wrappings so he would not get cold and carefully laid him next to the bag with the letter. People would soon be about, and she was certain he would be found quickly. Not that she would leave without making sure he was safe first. “Goodbye, me wee angel. Forgive me fer leavin’ ye.”

With huge effort, she turned and made her way back to the horse hidden behind the trees, stifling her sobs lest she be heard. She waited there until a farmer arrived at the gates with a wagonload of vegetables. He could not help but notice the little bundle and the bag she had left there. She watched with bated breath and tears dimming her vision as the man climbed down from his seat and went to see what it was. He visibly started when he realized it was a baby and cast about him hurriedly, clearly looking for whoever had left a baby there. But of course, he could not see her hiding in the trees.

He bent over and tenderly picked the little bundle up, cradling it in his arms as an experienced father would do. A sob tore from Raven’s throat as the man held the baby beneath one arm with practiced ease and hammered on the gate with his other fist. A guard popped his head out from above and, seeing the wagon below, gave the signal to open the gates.

With a loud shrieking and clanking of chains, the mechanism concealed inside the twin towers ground into action. The enormous oaken gates slowly creaked open, and two guards came out. Raven sobbed harder, her hand over her mouth to stifle the giveaway sound of her distress as she observed the farmer showing the guards the bundle in his arms.

One of the guards stepped out and performed a cursory search of the area near the gates, clearly looking for whoever had left the child there, but in vain. The other engaged in a brief conversation with the farmer. During it, the guard picked up the bag she had left containing Thorsten’s clothes—and the letter addressed to his father.

A decision was made, and the farmer handed the baby over to the guard, who carried Thorsten and the bag with the letter inside the gates. The farmer got back up on his wagon and drove it through the gates into the castle courtyard. The second guard followed, casting another look about the area before he went in. Then, the grinding, metallic din of the chains began again.

As the gates closed, and her little son disappeared from her life for good, the storm of emotions Raven had held back for so long broke free. She doubled up with pain and guilt, holding her belly as great sobs wracked her slight body and hot tears ran down her cheeks, blinding her.

Arne will never forgive me fer this. And probably Thorsten willnae either. But ’tis better that they should hate me, fer it means they’ll be alive.

Chapter Two

1310, the Isle of Harris, the Western Scottish Highlands
Arne MacLeod stood next to his older brother Haldor on the headland above the village, pulling his coat around him against the freezing rain and the biting wind that tugged at their clothing like a fierce terrier.

Ignoring the rising storm that was heading in from the sea, and the rain coursing from his short blond hair and down his face and neck, he continued to stare out from their vantage point at the southernmost tip of Harris, out across the darkened, turbulent waters, towards the northern shore of the tiny island of North Uist. He knew it was there, but even with his sharp eyes, in such harsh conditions, it was impossible to make out the rocky coastline.

“There’s nae a single boat out there tonight,” Haldor observed just as it began to rain harder, as if a sluice gate in heaven had been opened.

“Anyone sailin’ out there in this must have a death wish,” Arne said with a sigh, his heart feeling as cold as the rain soaking him and trickling down inside his collar.

“Jaysus, ’tis gonnae be a bad one, I reckon,” Haldor said, the wind plastering his long fair hair to his face.

“Well, there’s nay point standin’ out here in this. We’re likely tae freeze our bollocks off,” Arne replied.

“Aye, but there’s still work needs doin’ in the mornin’. We havenae finished speakin’ tae everyone we need tae.”

“Dinnae fash yersel’, Braither. I have a room at the inn already. I’ll stay there tonight and speak with the villagers we couldnae see today on the morrow. I’ve naethin’ better tae dae,” Arne told Haldor grimly. “Ye can get on home if ye like, before the storm really takes hold.”

“Are ye sure about that?” Haldor asked, sounding doubtful and glancing at Arne sideways. “D’ye nae want tae get back tae the castle? Thorsten will be waitin’ fer ye.”

“Ach, he’ll be all right. He’s a strong wee laddie. He can dae without me fer the night, I reckon.”

“Aye, maybe he can, but he’s still young and misses his faither when he’s away,” Haldor said.

“Look, he’s managed tae grow intae the best wee son a man could wish fer—and all without a maither.” Arne frowned, wondering what had made him say it. He hardly ever alluded to Maeve at all, let alone mentioned her by name. It hurt too much. So, why now?

And he could tell by the way Haldor turned to look at him that his brother was surprised too. Haldor had no idea that every time Arne found himself near the sea, and the boats that plied their trade there, he could not help but wonder if it had been one of those boats which had taken Maeve from the island three years prior. He was sure she was definitely not on the island because during that time, he had searched for her everywhere.

But she had told him in the letter she left for him when she abandoned Thorsten not to search for her, that she was going far away where no one would ever find her. She had been as good as her word, for all Arne’s efforts had proved pointless. She did not want to be found. Nae by me, at any rate.

But Haldor did not pursue the subject, likely because he had had his head bitten off too many times in the past when trying to broach the thorny subject. Perhaps because he wanted to get home before the storm hit.

Instead, he said, “Well, if ye’re sure, I’ll leave ye then and get back tae the castle,” and clapped Arne on the back before going to mount his horse, which was tethered to a wind-bent tree with Arne’s nearby.

“Aye, I’ll be as quick as I can and report back tae ye,” Arne said, following him and taking the reins of his own horse, intending to ride the mile or so back to the inn.

“All right. I’ll see ye back at home when ye’re done,” Haldor said over his shoulder as he turned his beast north and rode away, giving a last salute.

“Aye, safe journey, Braither,” Arne called after him, watching him disappear into the rain-filled darkness.

Once he was alone, Arne turned his back on the wild, wind-whipped sea and walked the horse slowly away from the sound of crashing waves, towards the lights of the tavern that were just visible through the driving rain in the distance.

He was halfway there, intent on a pint or three of strong ale to take the chill from his bones and help him sleep, when a terrible grinding sound fit to wake the dead rent the air. It stopped him in his tracks, for it sounded as though the heavens above were being torn asunder. The horse whinnied and snorted, pulling against the reins, spooked. Arne began stroking its nose and spoke comfortingly to it to quiet it.

He squinted through the rain at the sky, searching for a celestial source of the din. But there was nothing above he could make out. Then, suddenly, out of the murk came the distant shrieking and groaning sound of timber being violently pulled apart, followed by shrill screams of terror that ripped through the night.

A shipwreck! But who would be mad enough tae sail on a night like this?

The horse whinnied, bucking in panic. Arne gripped the reins to bring the frightened beast under control and swung himself into the rain-soaked saddle. He kicked the horse’s flanks and sped towards the village and the nearby shoreline, where the dreadful sounds of a boat being shattered to pieces on the rocks grew louder, filling the darkness.

Soon he met others who were running down to the beach, and he hailed a passing youth. “Hey, lad, will ye take me horse back tae the stables at the inn?” he shouted to him, slipping from the saddle.

“Aye, Sir,” the drenched youth replied, taking the reins Arne handed to him along with a few coins.

“Thanks, that’s somethin’ fer yer trouble,” Arne said above the racket of the storm and the bone-chilling sounds coming from the shore. The lad hurried away with the frighted horse, while Arne ran the short distance down to the gravelly beach with the other villagers and stood panting, casting about in the turbulent semi-darkness to see what was happening and who needed help.

A few yards distant, he vaguely made out two older men helping another from the water, dragging him between them away from the lashing waves. The man appeared to be unconscious. He could be dead for all Arne knew, but he ran towards them, nevertheless.

“D’ye need help?” he shouted above the terrible crashing of the waves and the groans of the disintegrating vessel, which he could vaguely make out being tossed like a broken toy on the raging tide.

The rescuers laid the unconscious man on the sand and peered at Arne through the gloom while dashing water from their eyes. “He’s all right, but there are more still in the water,” one of them shouted, gesturing with his arm at the waterlogged man at his feet. “This one’s the captain of the birlinn that’s breakin’ up. He sails these waters all the time.”

“But why is he sailin’ at night in a storm like this? That’s pure madness!” Arne exclaimed, going closer to help them drag the captain farther away from the rushing waters.

“Aye, but his business is better carried out under cover of darkness, if ye get me meanin’. He deals in black market goods, givin’ fugitives and the like passage tae the mainland,” one of the rescuers explained as they laid the captain on safer ground. “He needs the darkness tae play his trade.”

“Well, it’s nae done him nor them any good this foul night,” Arne responded, brushing sand from his hands and noticing that more people were arriving. Some carried lighted torches, casting a hellish light on the proceedings. Others were racing down the beach and splashing into the water, seeking other survivors. “I cannae see many of the passengers makin’ it through this,” he shouted to the two men, following behind as they raced back down the beach into the foaming sea.

Anxious to save as many of the poor souls as possible, he too waded out into the waves fully clothed, still in his boots, looking to aid more of the unfortunate ship-wrecked passengers being tossed up on the shore. Suddenly, he spotted something floating nearby, something white. A woman! He threw himself into the sea and swam as fast as he could towards her, against the frenzied, dragging tide, swallowing mouthfuls of the salt water as the tossing waves broke over him.

He finally reached her and took her limp body in his arms, brushing the lengths of her floating dark hair from his mouth as he turned on his back and towed her in until he could feel the bottom beneath his feet once more.

Then, he carried through the surging waves up onto the sand and gently laid her down near the growing line of bodies. The sopping mass of her hair was plastered her face, hiding her features, but he cared naught for that, wanting only to know if she was still alive.

He felt a spark of hope to see her chest moving. She was breathing shallowly, but he knew he had to act fast, for that could change at any moment. Some of the villagers came to aid him, holding their lighted torches high, others helping as he turned her on her side and thumped her back, to get rid of the water in her lungs.

For some reason he could not fathom, he felt very protective of her, whoever she was, and he was terrified she would die in his arms. When she finally started coughing violently, water running from her mouth, her entire body shaking, Arne slid an arm under her back to hold her up as she coughed and heaved.

To help her get some air, he pushed back the veil of dark hair obscuring her face, and his hand froze in midair as he stared down at the pale, almost blueish features revealed to him. As he took them in, the breath left his body in a rush, and his head went dizzy.

The face was as familiar to him as his own, as Thorsten’s, for it belonged to the woman who had walked out on him and their son three years before. It was none other than the boy’s mother. The only woman he had ever loved. The one who had ruined him forever.

Maeve!

1307, Scotland, Isle of Skye

Castle MacLeod

Dahlia MacLeod galloped her mare up the winding road, reveling in the feel of the sun on her face and her white-blonde hair, caught by the wind, streaming behind her as she rode. Glorying in the spring morning, as she neared the castle, she waved to the guard on duty and brought her little mare to a standstill, waiting while the portcullis was raised.

She walked her horse through the gate, crossing the cobbled courtyard to the drinking trough. There, after giving her horse a pat on her neck, she slid out of the saddle and handed her reins to the waiting groom.

Startled by the unexpected sound of a man’s deep voice issuing from the nearby stables she swiveled, craning her neck to catch sight of whoever was speaking.

Then she realized the man was talking to his horse.

“Good lad.” She heard him say. “I thank ye fer the safe journey.”

She was staring, mouth slightly ajar, as the owner of the deep, whisky-voice strode out of the stables. He was tall and broad with a mane of fair hair that fell almost to his shoulders. As he passed, nodding to her as he went, she glimpsed hazel eyes, a straight nose, cheeks like blades and full, wide lips.

Watching him stride up the steps of the keep she was strangely flustered. Her heart was suddenly beating faster, and she couldn’t help wishing she’d tidied her hair and had worn anything but her old, faded, blue-linen kirtle.

There was something familiar about the man. She could almost swear she’d met him somewhere. Yet she knew that was impossible, she’d never seen him before. His was not a face she’d readily forget.

Determined to put the man out of her mind, she was halfway up the stairs to her bedchamber when she was intercepted by one of the chambermaids.

Puffing slightly, the lass handed her a folded parchment. “Forgive me, melady. I’ve brought ye a message from yer brother, Laird Haldor.”

“Thank ye.” The maid hurried off and Dahlia shoved the note into her pocked to read in the privacy of her room.

It was not until she’d bathed and a donned a freshly laundered blouse and kirtle, brushed her hair and braided it, that she remembered her brother’s message.

Unfolding the crumpled parchment, she read his brief note. He was entertaining his Clan Council members and a special guest for a dinner to which no ladies were invited. He asked her to do him the honor of entertaining them with music, playing her clàrsach for their pleasure.

She smiled to herself. On rare occasions, when there was important business at hand, Haldor requested she play her Scottish harp for his guests.

Was the stranger she’d glimpsed outside the stables the ‘special guest’ her brother was dining with tonight? If so, he was someone to be wooed with music and fine food. Mayhap she would find out who he was, after all.

Damn. There was that annoying little jolt to her heartbeat again.

By the evening she was in a lather of curiosity. She’d taken special care with her appearance, donning a favorite red silk kirtle tied with a gold cord, and brushed her hair so that it tumbled in silvery waves, almost to her waist. After adding a pair of hooped gold earbobs, she put on her red silk slippers and made her way to the great hall.

The place was bustling with kitchen-maids setting up for the meal, but her brother and his guests had not yet arrived. With the help of the manservant who’d carried her clarsach from the solar, she set it up on its little wooden stand.

She was playing a dreamy, soft tune, lost in its gentle, sliding rhythms, when the men finally appeared and took their seats.

Her stomach lurched. There he was, the man from the stables, as handsome as she recalled, seated at her brother’s right hand next to her other brothers, Ivar and Arne. Whoever he might be, this meant he was important.

And there again was that strange frisson of heat rippling through her at the sight of him.

And it kept happening, every time she looked up and caught his gaze resting on her she could scarcely breath.

As the evening wore on, she picked up fragments of the men’s conversation.

From what she could gather there was a great deal of talk about peace. Compensation. For what? Stolen cattle? King Robert’s name was mentioned several times.

A young maid brought her a platter containing cheese, buttered bannocks and a rosewater soda. Realizing she was both hungry and thirsty she was grateful for the brief break.

“Who is the man seated beside me braither Haldor?” she asked quietly. “I cannae make out his tartan from here”

The maid glanced over to the high table. “’Tis the Mackinnon. I’ve heard he’s the new laird.”

Dahlia froze. A Mackinnon! The Mackinnons were their sworn enemies. The long-standing feud between the two clans could never be settled and it had only been a matter of months since their last terrible confrontation. Haldor had slaughtered Laird James Mackinnon, the man who had kidnapped to force her into marriage and who was the murderer of her beloved brother, Thor.

The one man who escaped her brother’s sword was Bairre Mackinnon. After the skirmish, he had disappeared and it was rumored he’d taken refuge in France. With the death of his brother James, it was this hateful man, Bairre, who was the rightful laird.

So, who was the man seated beside Haldor?

She glanced over at him again, and he caught her eye, his mouth widening in a smile. Her heart skipped a beat. It was as if something sparkled in the air between them, capturing her attention, drawing her gaze irresistibly to him.

***

Arran Mackinnon was finding it difficult to keep track of the conversation. His attention was constantly diverted to the graceful lass strumming her clàrsach on the other side of the hall. The music of the harp drifted in the air, punctuating what was being said with a gentle harmony that eased the gruff words being uttered by the MacLeods.

Not threats exactly, but dire warnings of what might befall any of the Mackinnon clansmen who continued the raiding that had been going on since James was laird. This was exactly what Arran was attempting to convince Haldor, his brothers, and the Mackinnon Clan Council, he would put an end to.

He was sincere in his wish for the clans to live peaceably in their adjoining lands. And it was the devil’s own job trying to convince the MacLeods that he was nothing like James and Bairre, with whom they’d been feuding for as long as he could remember.

Despite the overriding importance of this meeting, he found himself distracted. Whenever he looked up at Dahlia and their eyes met it was as if he was struck by a lightning bolt. She was a true beauty with her Viking-white hair, her bonny face, and the long graceful fingers strumming her harp.

He cast his mind back to their first meeting. Of course, she wouldn’t recognize him. He’d been masked and hidden from her gaze back then. Yet… there was something in the way she looked at him that made him think she was trying to bring their previous contact to mind.

The meal came to an end, with nothing decided, no promises made, but some of the ice broken between them. Haldor and the others were friendly enough, but he was no fool. Clan hospitality meant they would show him nothing but a warm welcome, no matter how much they might distrust him.

But it was a start. As he’d taken on the lairdship unofficially, even though it was only until Bairre Mackinnon either reappeared or was declared dead, and he was making every effort to settle the disputes that were keeping his clan from leading peaceful, prosperous lives. The foremost of those disputes was the feud with the MacLeods. After years of raiding across clan territories it was time to put a stop to the enmity and bring peace to both clans.

He looked up again, his gaze drawn irresistibly to the bonny lass strumming her clàrsach. He took in the delicate arch of her neck, the tendrils of shining hair on her cheeks, the rise of her creamy breasts at her neckline He met her glorious blue eyes, feeling the heat in his belly and a twitch in his groin as his wayward cock registered his enchantment.

She rose from her chair, smoothing out the rose-colored folds of her skirt, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. He caught his breath as she turned toward him and walked across the room to the table where he sat, the silken skirt swaying enticingly with her every step.

As she approached, Laird Haldor got to his feet. She curtseyed low before him and he clasped her hand in his.

“I am here tae bid ye good night, braither.”

The sound of her soft voice with its hint of huskiness almost brought Arran undone. At that moment he’d have given anything to take her hand and press it to his lips.

Haldor turned to him. “May I introduce me sister, the Lady Dahlia.” He proffered her hand to Arran. “This is Laird Arran MacKinnon, a distant cousin of James and Bairre. He’s taken the lairdship in Bairre’s absence.”

Standing, Arran bowed from the waist, never taking his gaze from Dahlia’s.

Grasping her hand, he gently pressed it to his lips. At once his senses were assailed by her delicate rose fragrance and the softness and warmth of her skin. Even though the breath caught in his throat, he managed a few halting words of greeting.

“I am pleased tae meet ye, Lady Dahlia.”

She smiled up at him.

“Have we nae met before this night, me laird?” She half-raised a delicate eyebrow in puzzlement.

Without hesitating, he rolled the lie off his tongue.

“I dinnae believe we have met, melady. Ye’re surely mistaken.”

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Chapter One

Isle of Skye, Scotland, October 1308
A Highland inn in No-man’s Land between MacLeod and Mackinnon territory

Dammit. T’would be simpler by far tae slice the throat of the beast I’m betrothed tae and end his life, rather than donning this foolish disguise tae escape the hateful man’s clutches.

Chewing on her lower lip, Dahlia MacLeod twisted her sweet features into a grimace. Flattening her bountiful breasts with the cloth drawn tight across her chest took more effort and caused more pain than she’d been anticipating.

She sucked in a shallow breath, wincing at the pressure of the tightly bound fabric, and donned the patched wool jacket she’d purchased from the village lad. She pulled on the baggy, faded-grey trews the lad had provided, tied on his soft leather boots and, finally, drew up her mass of near-white blonde hair and tucked it severely beneath the cloth cap.

Surveying her flattened outline, she was satisfied that her profile as a young lad would suffice. To complete the disguise, she wound a rough plaid woolen scarf around her neck so that the lower half of her face was concealed. If she could only get out of this confounded tavern unnoticed and make her way to the horse she’d arranged with the stable boy to saddle and make ready, she could be half-way back to Castle MacLeod and the warmth of her family before her absence was even discovered.

And the mercenary she’d hired with the last of her coin would be on his way to deal death to her fiancé Bairre Mackinnon.

Once she was safely ensconced at Castle MacLeod, she had no doubt she could deal with King Robert’s command that she should wed the brute, Laird Bairre Mackinnon. The one partly responsible for the murder of her brother.

Does the king nae understand I hate the man?

A shiver of revulsion ran through her at the very thought of herself wed to such a man.

Yet, knowing all this, her brother, the Laird Haldor, had no choice but to acquiesce to the king’s wishes.

With the cap lowered over her brow, she tiptoed from the small room and crept down the stairs, hoping to leave the tavern without being seen by her so-called guards.

Guard’s me lady’s arse. They’re naught but kidnappers, taking me against me will tae marry a man whose death I wish fer most fervently.

She hovered by the staircase, inhaling the warmth of the peat fire and the smells of stew, ale and hot bodies. To her relief, the tavern was crowded to overflowing with patrons, rowdy with laughter and the raised voices of men from the nearby farms enjoying their tankards at day’s end before returning home.

With luck she could make it through the smoky tavern without drawing any attention to herself.

She scanned the crowd, her gaze coming to rest on the stalwart figure and long, fair lion’s mane belonging to her chief escort Arran Mackinnon. At the sight of him, a cold stone dropped into her belly. She’d been certain he would have been in his bed by now and that the coast would be clear for her to make her escape.

Yet there he was, seated at a table that was much too close to the doorway for her liking. Mackinnon was his with his friend Craig Donald and two companions she didn’t recognize. She agonised. Should she make a dash for it, hoping that the men were too deep in conversation to notice her? Or, should she retrace her steps back to her room and wait for a better opportunity?

She’d paid the lad, the horse would be waiting. It was now or never. If she didn’t make her break for freedom before they travelled deeper into Mackinnon country, she might not get another chance. And once they arrived at their destination, Mackinnon Castle, it would be impossible to escape.

That was something she knew with certainty. This was not the first time she was being forced into marriage with one of her clan’s enemies. Her soul was still burdened with the memory of her abduction four years ago by James Mackinnon, Bairre’s older brother.

James had not succeeded in his plot to force their marriage, but her escape from his clutches had resulted in the death of her beloved brother, Thor. Now James was dead at Haldor’s hand and the king, foolishly determined to bring peace between the warring clans, had commanded that this marriage between herself and Bairre Mackinnon should take place in one month’s time.

Thinking on this, she shook her head. Nay. Nothing would force her tae marry one of the hated Mackinnons. Not even the king’s orders. Haldor had promised he’d petition the king on her behalf but, as yet, there’d been no relief. Tonight, she was taking matters into her own hands, and if she were killed in her bid for freedom, it was better to die than to share a bed with the Mackinnon.

As she watched from the shadows, she saw Aaron Mackinnon’s three companions rise and bid him goodnight before they slipped through a side doorway and disappeared, leaving Arran at the table, alone with his tankard.

She watched him coolly. It was not only his wild hair that gave him the look of a carved lion, but his size. He was broad across the shoulders, perhaps even a match for her own brothers, his arms were strong and cross-hatched with battle scars. But despite his look of a fierce warrior, he was not coarse like the others, there was something kind in his face. He lacked the grim-set mouth and the harsh brows of the other Mackinnons. There was even a hint of gentleness about him at times as he tended to his horse or looked into the sky contemplating.

But no matter. Standing there, contemplating Arran Mackinnon would not help her to escape. If she made haste and kept her head down, she could make it out without him noticing her.

Taking a deep breath, she tugged the cap lower and took her first steps away from the cover provided by the staircase, heading for the tavern door. She was too busy navigating her way between tables to see the serving girl emerge from the kitchen with a tray loaded with pewter tankards filled with ale.

She collided head-first with the lass, who let out a loud, head-turning shriek. The tankards went flying and the girl descended backwards, her skirt and pinafore in disarray, and Dahlia quite soaked with the spilt drinks, on top of the squirming, squealing servant.

“Get off me,” the girl yelled, pushing with both hands at Dahlia’s chest, loosening the fabric she had taken such pains to wrap around her breasts.

Dahlia scrabbled frantically to gain the traction she needed to rise to her feet while the serving-girl lashed out with both fists, keeping her off balance.

The hubbub of voices had ceased, all eyes turned to the girl’s plight, a sudden hush fell over the tavern, and all that could be heard were her screeches.

“Oooh. Someone help me! I’m being crushed. Get him off. Take him away.”

Before Dahlia could scramble upright her arm was rudely wrenched behind her back, she was dragged to her feet and, despite her efforts to break free, she found herself being roughly propelled toward the tavern door.

To her horror she saw that the serving-wench’s rescuer and the man holding her captive in a fierce, unbreakable grip, was none other than the very man she was hell-bent on escaping. Arran Mackinnon.

Giving her no chance to protest, he bundled her across the room and flung open the heavy oak door. She struggled mightily but she was no match for his strength. He kept hold of her arm in an iron grip half-dragging her outside to the cobbled tavern yard.

Wrenching herself free, her hair tumbling over her eyes she uttered a fierce oath. “God’s blood, keep yer filthy hands tae yersel.”

Then, before he could seize her again quick as a bolt of lightning she turned and ran across the courtyard toward the stables with Arran hot on her heels.

“I command ye tae stop right there,” he bellowed as she disappeared inside, heading fast toward the stall where the saddled horse was waiting with the stable hand.

She had a foot in the stirrup and was doing her best to leap up onto the horse’s back when Arran seized her from behind and dragged her down. As she fell, he grabbed her around the waist, his hand brushing her breasts, which had now come loose from the fabric tie.

He held her tight against his heaving chest and she could feel his pounding heartbeat, his breath coming fast against her cheek. He smelled of leather and ale and peat smoke. A not altogether unpleasant man-scent that filled her nostrils and reminded her in a reassuring way of her brothers. They were all skilled fighters, but there’d been times when she’d bested them in mock fights in training. What she didn’t have in brawn she made up for in wiles and there’d been many a time she’d been able to outwit them, when they were younger, and bring them to their knees.

“Let me go,” she twisted suddenly, trying to loosen his grip, struggling to catch her breath, her fair hair flying wildly about her.

“Ye take me fer a fool,” he growled holding her fast, his arm around her as solid as a tree branch and every bit as immovable. With his free hand he ripped aside the scarf she’d wound around her face revealing her features. He nodded with recognition.

In the lamp-light his eyes glittered green-gold as he met her gaze. “Nay lad is soft in the chest like ye, me Lady Dahlia MacLeod.” He gave a sharp laugh. “And nay lad has hair that streams like a silver waterfall down his back.”

Shaking her head, she cursed herself for not taking the scissors and snipping off every skerrick of her fair hair before she’d attempted her escape.

There was a sudden flash as the stable-boy who’d been observing their tussle from the shadows raced past them. No doubt afraid of being implicated in whatever mischief Dahlia might still be planning.

Watching her one avenue of escape disappearing out the stable door, she groaned loudly. Arran, disregarding her pounding fists against his chest tightened his hold on her. In a burst of sudden fury, she twisted to face him, letting fly a solid kick, her boot connecting with Arran’s shin with a satisfying thump. He grunted, but his grip on her didn’t waver.

“Hold still, ye wee vixen. There’s nae one tae come tae yer aid and yer horse is back in his stable now. Ye’ll nae be riding this night.”

There was a terrible truth to his words that hit Dahlia a despairing blow, almost robbing the breath from her lungs. But perhaps there was still hope. If only she could somehow release herself from his clutches, she could still take the horse from his stable and ride fast out of here. She was near enough to MacLeod territory to find a friendly crofter or someone loyal to her brother who could offer shelter where she could safely hide from Arran and the Mackinnon men.

Next morning all her hopes would be dashed once they entered Mackinnon lands. There’d be no help for her there. All the farmers and villagers would be too afeared of Bairre Mackinnon’s wrath to provide her with even so much as a sip of water to quench her thirst. Let alone risk their necks by offering her a place to hide. The man was known far and wide as a merciless brute, dealing out summary justice at his whim to any one of his folks who dared to disagree with him or cross him in some way.

Unlike her brother Haldor, who commanded loyalty because of his fairness and kindness as well as his skill as a great warrior, Laird Bairre ruled through fear and the terror he instilled at the prospect of a terrible fate in his dungeon or on the gallows awaiting those who earned his ill will. Whether they deserved it or nae.

She shuddered at the horrifying prospect of becoming Bairre Mackinnon’s bride. Now, with the failure of her first escape plan, the time had come for her to put her feminine wiles to the test.

Allowing her shoulders to slump she willed the remainder of her body to grow limp, hoping Arran would loosen his grip if he felt her resistance weaken.

“Please.” She gentled her voice, injecting it with a slight quiver as if she was on the brink of tears. “I’m yer helpless captive now. A maid is nay match fer a warrior’s strength. Can ye nae allow me to stand free? ‘Tis unseemly fer ye to be clinging tae me the way ye are.” She spoke the words so softly he was forced to lower his head to hear what she was saying. “Would yer laird approve of ye handling his bride in such a manner?”

She held her breath. Every nerve ending tensing for the moment when she was certain he would loosen his hold and she could muster all her power to burst free of him and make a dash for safety.

Chapter Two

Arran smiled to himself. If the lass believed this swift transformation from raging vixen to submissive maiden would fool him into believing she’d given up her battle to escape and was now resigned to her fate, she was sadly mistaken. It was an old trick and one he’d become familiar with as a wee lad learning his warrior skills. An enemy could feign weakness and at the very instant you lowered your guard, he’d have his sword at your throat.

Still, it would be interesting to see what this feisty lass intended.

Moments ticked by and he deliberately slackened his hold on her waist, immediately feeling the tension ripple through her body as she prepared to make her move. He further released his grip. Then, exactly at the moment he’d anticipated, she flew from his arms like a ball from a cannon and raced toward the stable where her horse waited.

He hesitated, observing her fleeing figure, half amused and half admiring. She was determined, he’d give her that.

He reached her as she fumbled with the latch on the stable gate. Seizing her around the waist from behind, he snatched her up again. She kicked out wildly, scratching with her fingernails at his arms where he held her fast. All the while she was shrieking and screeching loud enough to challenge the banshees across the sea in Erin’s Isle, using language that no lady should ever allow to issue from her mouth.

“Put me down, ye God-fersaken bastard. Ye poxy villain. Ye low-life, worthless scum.”

“Hush, melady. If ye bring some poor lad running tae help ye, using language like that, he’s bound to believe me when I tell him ye’re a whore luring unsuspecting customers tae bed her in the stable hay.”

She opened her mouth as if to utter a further shriek, but only a loud and indignant squeak emerged before he hoisted her over his shoulder with one easy movement, as if she was nothing more than a sack of barley. Her fists drummed his back but he paid no more heed to her frantic blows than he would to the bite of a bed bug.

“I caution ye, lass. Keep yer voice down afore ye lose the respect of every farmer and decent man in the tavern.”

She growled a moan but, to his relief, she ceased her shrieks and her pummelling as he carried her across the courtyard and pushed the tavern door open.

“Good, wee lassie. Ye’re showing some common sense at last.”

There was that growl again. “Och ye test me sorely, Arran Mackinnon,” she muttered, a sound that seemed to issue through gritted her teeth.

Arran wasted no time weaving his way through the tables and heading up the stairs. The denizens of the tavern hardly bothered to throw a glance his way. Obviously, they were used to the sight of a wench slung over a man’s shoulder being lugged upstairs to bed. He chuckled to himself. His threat had worked and there wasn’t so much as a peep out of Dahlia until they entered the room.

He lowered her onto the bed in the corner of the tiny room, where she lay, arms akimbo, glaring up at him. Her dress and lady’s riding outfit lay across the chair in the corner where she’d discarded them earlier, along with the leather satchel containing more of her clothing. In the corner was a large copper tub filled with hot water, cooling now. He’d ordered it earlier so she could bathe after their two-day ride and prepare for the journey tomorrow, when she would be presented to Laird Mackinnon.

He could restrain his ire no longer. “Ye’re a foolish, spoilt lass,” he bawled at her, “who cares naught fer the ones who’ve been tasked tae guard ye, whose lives depend on bringing ye safely tae Castle Mackinnon.” He was intent on impressing on her the futility and selfishness of any escape plan she might yet contemplate. He would have gone on, but he was held back by the sense that she could not be trusted to know the inner workings of his heart and the knowledge of the hold Bairre Mackinnon had over him and his overriding fear for the wellbeing of his precious mother, Emilia.

Dahlia huffed, levering herself into a sitting position. “Ye may shout at me all ye wish, Arran Mackinnon. I dinnae care a fig fer ye and yer kind, who’ll dae the bidding of a monster like yer laird.” She scowled at him and he felt his heart miss a beat. “And, nay matter what ye say, I’ll scream me heart out if I so wish.”

Masking his concern for her, he glowered, shaking his head. “Stop yer caterwauling. There is nay one here tae come tae yer yells. Ye’re nae in yer brother’s castle now with all the servants at yer beck and call.”

Instead of having the desired effect of silencing Dahlia’s tirade, his words seemed to spur her on to greater heights of rage.

“Ye’re a pestilent, vindictive knave,” she jeered loudly, tossing her head back, fixing him with an unwavering glare. “Ye’re unscrupulous, dishonorable, false, worthless…” Looking around the room as if searching for something bad enough to name him, she turned her pretty lips into a sneer, spitting out her next words with a vehemence that set him reeling. “Ye’re nothing better than a… a… jack-in-the box, doing the bidding of an evil, contemptible, loathsome…” She gasped in a breath, “…fiend.”

Although her words stung, his annoyance dissolved as he took in the sight of her, chest heaving, her glorious breasts half exposed over the fabric she’d used to disguise them, her hair dishevelled as if she’d only just risen from his bed after a bout of lovemaking. And the boy’s britches she had on only accentuated her womanly waist and hips rather than disguising them.

He bit down the urge to laugh. She really was a most delightful creature. Her cheeks were flushed a deep pink, her hair falling in ringlets over her shoulders most fetchingly, and her eyes, of the deepest periwinkle-blue, were alight with a wildfire that set his pulse racing and ignited his desire. If only they could shine for him, not with fury as they were now, but with passionate desire.

But she was never meant to be his. Her fate was to be taken by the Laird to be his plaything, to do with her as he wished.

The darkness in his soul grew even blacker at the thought of the Mackinnon laying his hands on that pearly white skin, crushing her delicate lips under his cruel mouth and ravishing her soft body.

This is madness. I cannae allow mesel’ the indulgence of such thoughts. Me task is clear. I must deliver the lass tae Castle Mackinnon. Nay matter how much it pains me to dae sae.

“Enough,” he muttered in a voice that made it clear he’d brook no further complaints or resistance. “Ye’ve said yer piece and I’ll listen tae nay further griping, nor will I tolerate any further attempts on yer part tae leave me care.”

She pshawed loudly, frowning up at him from the edge of the bed where she perched cross-legged. “Yer care? At least ye could be honest and admit ye’ve nae care fer me. If ye cared even a jot ye’d nae be taking me tae a wedding that is a match with the devil himself.”

“So, ye’ve nay wish tae marry me… master?” His heart lifted a little. Mayhap she hated the man as much as he did.

She shrugged. “Ye’d be a fool tae think aught else when I’ve been at such pains these past hours tae leave ye and return tae me family. I’ll dae all in me power tae avoid marriage with Bairre Mackinnon.” She turned her gaze to a blank space on the wall somewhere beyond his shoulder. “Even if it should lead me tae a deathly fate.”

“Nay lass.” He reached over to envelop her small, elegant hand in his. “Ye mustnae think such thoughts. The king has commanded that ye should wed and bring peace tae the war between our clans. Can ye nae consider it yer duty?”

Gazing up through her long dark lashes she seemed to be assessing him. A ripple of something unsettling rattled through his veins. It was as if she could see into his soul and understand the darkness haunting him. He wanted nothing more than to trust this woman and to earn her trust in return. Yet to trust her could lead to his own deathly fate.

Tonight was not the time for such dangerous thoughts. Insofar as they were both concerned, he was to take her to Mackinnon Castle, where she would take part in the preparations for her wedding to the laird. There was no space for any other thinking. He must subdue his desire and treat her coolly, hide his empathy for her plight, focus only on what he’d been tasked to do to ensure she arrived at the castle.

Above all, he had to carry out his duty to ensure the safety of his captive mother, whose very life hung in the balance. She was ironically at the mercy of a man without mercy, Bairre Mackinnon.

“The king doesnae ken what he’s asking of me family. I am the third he has commanded tae wed. Me braithers are happy with their wee wifeys but I will find nothing but heart-sorrow and sadness in the castle of the Mackinnon.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Whatever yer fate melady, I think ye’d be better tae face it sweet- smelling instead of with the rank stench of ale that’s soaking ye now. Why, me nose is fair twitching at the scent of ye.”

Her lips gave a tiny quirk that could have been the beginning of a smile.

“Och. Ye’re right, I reek like the ripe inside of an unwashed tankard.” She glanced up, arching a dark brow. “Mayhap if I greet yer laird as I am he’ll nae be sae eager tae wed me.”

“On the contrary, lass. The Laird Mackinnon is bound tae fancy ye even more if ye carry the scent of a brewery. He fair minds his ale, does Bairre.”

He watched her face fall and her shoulders slump and his heart ached for her. He was under no illusion that Bairre would treat her well. He was a violent brute who thought nothing of delivering a cruel beating to anyone who displeased him, whether they be a lad or a lass.

“I’ll pay a visit tae the kitchen and find us something fer our supper. I’ve had naught tae line me belly since midday and I daresay ye’re hungry too.” Looking Dahlia up and down he ignored the forlorn shake of her head. “There’s still warmth in the water in that tub. When I leave the room, strip off those stinking, wet clothes, untie that pointless strip of cloth from around yer… er… chest, dip yer body in the water and cleanse yerself.”

With that, he swivelled toward the door. “I’ll expect ye tae be sweet-smelling and sweet-tempered when I return.”

He stepped through the door, pulling it closed on the sound of her loud “harrumph,” turned the key in the lock, pocketed it, and headed down the stairs without waiting to hear what curses she might be laying at his head.

After ordering leek soup and a venison pie from the kitchen he made his way back to the table he’d previously been seated at. Most of the tavern’s customers had departed, leaving few to occupy the now quiet place. He sat with a tankard before the fire, reviewing the events of the day, praying quietly to himself that by the time he returned to Dahlia’s room she would have seen reason. He was confident she could not escape from the securely locked room. Its small, high window was far too tight a squeeze for even the slenderest lad to fit through.

It was not difficult to understand her resolve and her loathing for Bairre. The man he called ‘cousin’ was loved by very few. He smiled grimly to himself. Mayhap the man’s mother had been the only one to bestow any affection on her son. And, as she’d passed away when Bairre and his late brother James were little more than babes, perhaps not even she had been able to offer him a mother’s love.

He finished the ale and trod wearily up the stairs. Unlocking the door of Dahlia’s room with a sense of foreboding that she might make another attempt to evade him as he entered the room.

She was standing by the fire, her cheeks glowing pink, her still-damp, long, silvery hair tumbling down her back. His fingers itched to reach out and smooth a wayward lock from her forehead and tuck it behind her ear. She was clad in a cream silk night gown and a dark-blue fur-lined velvet robe which she tightened around herself as he stepped further into the room. The air was filled with the fragrance of roses and cinnamon.

He gasped, his senses reeling as he struggled to hide the powerful effect her beauty was having on him. He steeled himself against the twitch and ache in his groin as he gazed at her.

“I am pleased ye’re seeing sense, melady.”

She snorted, her eyes flashing. “I’m seeing sense enough tae ken ye’ve foiled me attempt tae get away this night. But dinnae think I’ll nae try again as soon as there’s a chance.”

He chuckled softly. “Why, lass, I’d never be so foolish as tae believe ye’ve been tamed by one foiled attempt.”

“That is wise of ye.” She held her head proudly, and even though he sensed he was in for more trouble before he’d delivered her safely to Castle Mackinnon, he could only admire her feistiness and determination.

He allowed his gaze to wander over her, observing the details of her delicate form, feeling like some besotted troubadour composing verses to honour his lady’s beauty.

Those thoughts put him in imminent danger of wandering into forbidden territory, so it came as a relief when a sharp rap on the door drew his attention and he hastened over to open it. A small kitchen maid entered the room bearing a tray with the meal he’d ordered, alongside two tankards of ale, and placed it on a small table beside the fire.

Drawing up a chair for Dahlia, he waited while she arranged herself before taking the seat opposite.

They ate in silence, the only sound in the room the crackling of the fire. Once the meal was finished, he feigned a yawn, placing a hand at his mouth, and got to his feet.

“’Tis time ye took tae yer bed, Lady Dahlia. Ye’ll be needing yer rest as we’ve a long day’s ride ahead of us tomorrow.”

She didn’t reply and he could almost see the wheels of thought turning in that charming head of hers.

“Are ye thinking there’ll be a moment fer ye tae gallop off and leave me, Craig Donald and our two guards behind?” He grinned as her cheeks blushed pink, not meeting his gaze. Of course, he’d been reading her thoughts correctly. Tomorrow he’d make sure he never allowed her out of his sight. There’d be no opportunities for her to slip away.

“And ye’ll be making fer yer room tae sleep now?”

He shook his head. “I’ll nae be leaving ye alone this night, I’ll be keeping a close watch over ye while ye’re sleeping.”

At that she squared her shoulders and fixed him with a blue-eyed gaze that came close to robbing his breath. “I think it isnae so, Arran Mackinnon. Ye ken Bairre Mackinnon would never tolerate ye sleeping in the same room as mesel’.” She gave a sharp laugh. “If I told him ye’d slept beside me, he’d make short work of ye with his long sword.”

“And d’ye wish me tae sleep beside ye, Lady Dahlia?”

He enjoyed watching the bright colour flush her face. It was clear the thought had crossed her mind.

With a sigh, he shook his head. “Mayhap that’s a dream we both might share.” He noted that, as their eyes met, she schooled her features to give no hint of what thoughts might be passing through her head.

“But, never fear. I’ll nae remain in this room but spend the night outside, lying across yer doorway. If ye think tae somehow unlock the door and sneak away, I’ll be awake in an instant and ye’ll nae get past me.”

***Outside the bedroom door he pulled his cloak around him and hunkered down on the hard oak floor, using his bunnet to rest his head. Thoughts of Dahlia whirled through his mind keeping him from sleep. She was more beautiful now than he remembered when he’d first set eyes on her four long years ago when she was held captive by Bairre’s older brother, James Mackinnon. The man who had murdered Dahlia’s brother, Thor, and himself been slain by her brother the Laird Haldor.

He could only dream on what she would say if she realized he was the young man who had made an ill-fated attempt at rescuing her from James Mackinnon’s clutches all those years ago.

One month prior…

Castle MacGregor was still quiet so early in the morning, even if Evan’s study was anything but. He didn’t even know how Padraig had managed to corner him, along with every other member of his council, the moment he had sat down behind his desk, eager to spend a couple of hours of his morning in peace after waking up early that day.

It was all Padraig’s fault. Evan had the paranoid thought that he had somehow managed to get him to wake up so early, just so he could torture him first thing in the morning.

“Can we discuss this later?” Evan asked, slumping in his seat. The maids hadn’t even brought him breakfast yet and there he was, discussing his future.

“Nay,” said Padraig in his usual firm tone that left little room for discussion. “This is important, me laird. We thought we would have more time tae find a suitable bride, but with yer faither gone… well, a laird cannae remain unwedded fer too long. We must find ye a suitable match.”

The mention of his father forced Evan to grind his teeth, molars protesting as he clenched his jaw to keep himself from flying into a blind rage. It wasn’t Padraig’s fault, he knew. He didn’t deserve his misplaced anger.

This was not the first time his council had brought up the matter of his marriage, nor was it the first time Evan had tried to avoid it. There were far more important things to be done before he could even begin to think about marrying someone, even if it was for a strong alliance. Clan MacGregor was strong, even after the sudden death of his father. An alliance was not his main concern.

No, his main concern was revenge. His main concern was making sure the English were kept away from his people’s lands.

“I dinnae have time fer this now, Padraig,” he said, leaning back on his seat with a weary sigh, arms crossing almost petulantly in front of his chest. “Ye ken this. I must find out more about Graeme Ruthven.”

The look Padraig gave him was one of utter exasperation. Pinching the bridge of his nose, the man said, “Even if ye are correct about Laird Ruthven—”

“I am.”

“Even if ye are, it doesnae change the fact that ye must find a wife,” Padraig said, ignoring Evan’s interruption. “If anythin’, if ye’re correct, it is even more important that we prepare fer the possibility of war. What dae ye think will happen if ye go after him an’ reveal he is workin’ with Balliol an’ the Sassenachs? We will need all the allies we can get.”

“We have enough allies.” Clan MacGregor had many friends. For generations, his clan had maintained good relationships with the rest of the Highlands, and though perhaps not everyone would rush to his rescue, everyone would surely support him if he stood up to Balliol and the King. Everyone had something to lose if the English maintained control of the Highlands through Balliol—everyone but Ruthven, who would only have something to gain as Balliol’s ally.

Padraig turned to the rest of the council, looking at them with a pleading gaze, as if to silently ask them for help. Clearing his throat, one of the older members of the council, Neacal, stepped forward and addressed Evan with a patient smile.

“Me laird, I implore ye tae consider Padraig’s suggestion,” he said. “We have already found several young women who would be excellent choices fer ye. Ye can pick whoever pleases ye most.”

“But ye should carefully consider the Lady Buchanan,” Padraig said. Next to him, Neacal sighed, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and looking as though he wanted to rip it all out. “The Buchanan Clan is strong an’ wealthy, and the Lady Buchanan is rumored tae be a bonnie lass. They would make excellent allies.”

“The Lady Buchanan is also rumored tae be less than virtuous,” said Neacal. “Many things are said about her.”

“Och?” asked Evan. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage, he thought. If Padraig wanted him to wed the Lady Buchanan but Neacal disagreed with his choice, then it would surely make the process of choosing a wife for him even lengthier. “What, precisely, is said about the Lady?”

“Only rumors, me laird,” said Padraig.

“Rumors must start from somewhere,” said Neacal. “It is said her involvement has been instrumental in some conflicts. She remains in the shadows, but she can manipulate even from there.”

“Is this how she has gathered all this power an’ wealth, then?” Evan asked, now curious to see why Padraig would even consider her. He was not a man who acted without planning first, nor was he a man to tolerate such people around him, which meant that he either didn’t believe the rumors or he was so desperate that he would accept that woman just for the power it would bring their clan.

But we’re nae in a dire position. We dinnae need them, as much as Padraig seems tae think we dae.

“Nay,” said Padraig sharply, taking another step forward. “The Buchanan Clan has always been a powerful one. An’ I have met the lady meself. She seemed perfectly pleasant, me laird. There was naething tae suggest that she is as bad as Neacal claims.”

Evan glanced between the two advisors, weighing his options. “I think the truth perhaps lies somewhere in-between. That said, I still think the matter o’ Ruthven an’ the King is more important than anything else at this moment. I willnae waste any time courtin’ a lass when I have more important things tae dae. Ruthven will be at Laird Hamilton’s weddin’, correct? Alaric an’ I shall meet him there an’ try tae find out as much as we can about him.”

“That is a dangerous plan,” said Padraig.

“It isnae more dangerous than allowin’ him tae dae as he wishes,” Evan pointed out. “It is imperative that we find out the truth about him. We’ve had several reports that he is a spy fer Balliol an’ the King. What other proof dae we need?”

With a sigh, Padraig turned to the rest of the council, dismissing them. Evan watched them go and only after they were all out of the room did Padraig come closer to him, bracing himself against the desk and speaking quietly, as though he feared someone else would hear him.

“It is a dangerous thing, Evan,” he said, and it was the first time since his father’s death that Evan had heard Padraig use his given name. “Ye are the laird now. This clan needs ye an’ I must admit I feel… uneasy when ye an’ Alaric are away. I always worried about the two o’ ye but now it seems tae me that ye willnae rest until ye’ve had yer revenge.”

All the fight drained out of Evan then. He knew, of course, that everything Padraig did was because he was concerned—concerned about the clan, concerned about Evan and Alaric, concerned about the future and their people. But he couldn’t help but think that he worried too much, to the point where it hindered their progress.

“An’ ye’re right,” he said. “We willnae rest until we have avenged our faither. Is that so bad, Padraig? Is it so bad that we wish tae avenge him?”

“What if ye end up like him, Evan?” The mere thought seemed to shake Padraig to his core. “I have already buried a good friend. I dinnae wish tae bury the two lads I love like me own bairns.”

“Padraig, Alaric an’ I will be fine,” Evan assured him as he stood from his chair and rounded his desk to pat the other man’s shoulder. “We are nae bairns anymore. We havenae been fer a long time.”

“I ken that,” Padraig said. “But it doesnae change the fact that ye still seem like bairns tae me. Let an old man have his concerns, Evan. This is what we dae best.”

Evan could hardly argue with Padraig when he got like this, and so he didn’t try. Instead, he said, “I’ll consider it, alright? I will consider the Lady Buchanan an’ every other lass ye have found fer me. But I will dae so after the Hamilton weddin’.”

“An’ until then?”

“Until then, Alaric an’ I have serious work tae dae an’ we need yer assistance,” said Evan. “We need all the resources we can get.”

Padraig nodded, his own hand coming to rest on Evan’s shoulder. It was the most fatherly gesture he had received since his father’s death, and he had to swallow around the knot in his throat, willing himself to stay grounded instead of losing himself in his grief. There was no time for this. He would only grieve his parents once he had obtained his revenge.

“Ye shall have them,” Padraig promised. “I only ask that ye remain safe. That ye dinnae take risks.”

“I willnae,” said Evan, even if he knew his promise to be false.

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Chapter One

Marrying a complete stranger for a strategic alliance was the fate of many noble girls. However, Bonnie MacLaren never imagined she would be one of them. Marrying for political gain was one thing, but marrying a man she only knew by name was another.

Then again, she would be meeting him soon. Laird Graeme Ruthven was waiting for her on the Isle of Arran, where they would both be attending the wedding of Tavish Hamilton and his bride, Amelia. The council of the MacLaren Clan had made it clear that Bonnie – as the heir if something happened to her brother-in-law and laird of the clan, Macauley Sinclair – was to wed as soon as possible to a man of their choosing, in an attempt to prevent another effort for a hostile takeover.

Bonnie could hardly blame them. After her cousin, Faolan, had attempted to hold onto his role as the laird of the clan by threatening to marry Bonnie against her will, the council was more eager than ever to marry her off to someone so they wouldn’t have to deal with the headache of another suitor with ulterior motives.

The sky was dark, clouds gathering above Bonnie’s head as she and her two trusted guards travelled from Castle MacLaren to the shore, where they would take a birlinn to the Isle of Arran. So far, the winter had been mostly dry, bringing them less rain than usual, but the cold bit into her skin and seeped into her bones—a chill that turned all the more humid as they approached the coastline. It was still early in the day, and yet the grey clouds blocked the sun, forcing Bonnie to hold tight onto her cape as the wind whipped her face and hair.

“We’re almost there,” one of the guards, Finlay, called over the whistling of the wind. “Ye willnae have tae endure this much longer.”

“I’ve endured worse,” Bonnie said and then added with a teasing smirk, “like yer company.”

Finlay turned to look at her in mock offence. “If me lady protests me presence, I am more than happy tae return tae the castle an’ relieve ye o’ the burden. Now, whether ye make it tae Arran without me is a different matter.”

“What dae ye think will happen tae me on the way?”

“I can only guess Lachlan will inadvertently kill ye afore ye’re even on the birlinn,” said Finlay, prompting an unimpressed sigh from the other guard.

Bonnie laughed. In all the years she had known Finlay, the man could never help himself when it came to Lachlan—or anyone else, really. He always had a joke to offer and loved to tease those around him. Being a few years older than her, Bonnie had always thought of him as the big brother she had never had. They even resembled each other in their colors if not their features, their eyes and hair a similar shade of deep brown. Where Bonnie was small and slender, though, with a delicate nose and mouth, and a rounded, doll-like face, Finlay was a wall of a man, well-suited to his profession.

Lachlan, on the other hand, could only be described as willowy, Bonnie thought; boyish, even, with his unruly mop of blond hair and his bright blue eyes. He worked well with Finlay, though, making up for the speed the other lacked when it came to battle.

“Maybe that would be fer the best,” Bonnie said with a sigh, remembering the reason for her visit to Arran. Part of it was the wedding, of course, but part of it was so she could be paraded in front of Laird Ruthven so that he could decide if she was good enough for him; like a prized mare whose only value came from her appearance and how many children she could bear.

It was never meant tae be like this.

Bonnie had entertained the idea that she would one day marry for love and it sounded idyllic—the kind of thing that had few chances of ever occurring as she was the eldest daughter. But then Cathleen had married Macauley, and he had taken on the mantle of the laird of the clan. Bonnie had held onto the hope that perhaps with a man like him in charge, a man trusted and respected by everyone around him, she would have the chance to find love after all, and if not love, then at least a husband who would be a good match for her—someone she and her family could get to know slowly, someone they could be certain wouldn’t hurt her or the clan.

And yet all those hopes had now been ruined.

“Dinnae speak like that,” Finlay said, though his gaze was understanding as he looked at her. “Yer only obligation is tae meet him.”

“Fer now,” Bonnie said. “But if he an’ the council agree, then we all ken me opinion on the matter will be irrelevant.”

There was nothing Finlay could say to that, Bonnie knew, and so he didn’t respond much to her relief. She didn’t want to hear any comforting words, because in the end, they wouldn’t matter. Words couldn’t change what awaited her at the other side of the sea, nor could they bring her any comfort.

It was better to say nothing at all.

“Well, let us make it tae the weddin’ first,” said Lachlan in the best approximation of a cheerful tone that he could muster.

“Aye, the laddie doesnae like the sea,” said Finlay.

“I have a name,” said Lachlan. “An’ I am only two years younger than ye.”

“Ye dinnae look like it.”

Bonnie chuckled as she listened to them bicker, their teasing helping to take her mind off Laird Ruthven, at least for a while. Soon, she would have to face the reality of her situation, but as long as she was with Finlay and Lachlan, the three of them leisurely riding down the wide path, then she could still pretend that they were only visiting to attend the wedding.

After a few more hours, the harbor appeared before them and Bonnie gazed at the horizon, where the sea met the sky. It was clearer there, the clouds thinning and allowing some of the sunlight to creep in. She hoped the weather would remain clear and that their trip to Arran would be tolerable, if not entirely pleasant, but there was no telling what the sea would bring. She had travelled a few short distances before and most of the time, the waves had left her nauseous and eager to step once again on solid land.

“Alright, me an’ Lachlan will leave the horses here,” said Finlay as they dismounted, pointing to the left of the harbor. “Ye can go ahead tae the birlinn an’ we’ll find ye shortly.”

Bonnie nodded as she handed Finlay the reins to her horse. She adjusted the quiver which held her arrows along with the bow that was strapped to her back, as she had refused to take such a long trip without any weapons, and then headed to where Finlay had gestured. Here, the wind was stronger, mercilessly whipping her skin and pulling strands of her hair out of its updo, but there was nothing she could do other than hurry against it, keeping her eyes half-closed as they watered.

When she reached the edge of the land, she looked up to see that there were two boats there instead of the one she had expected.

Which one are we meant tae take?

Bonnie looked over her shoulder to where she had last seen Lachlan and Finlay but they weren’t there. With a heavy sigh, she took a few steps back, looking for them, only to find out that they were nowhere to be seen.

She looked back at the boats. One of them was smaller, bearing nothing but the essentials. The other had a small room built on the deck and was a little larger, but otherwise the same.

Well, I can ask the men.

First, she walked to the larger boat, climbing up the plank. From the moment she stepped foot on the deck, she could tell that it was going to be a long, unpleasant trip.

How I hate the waves!

Looking around, it didn’t take Bonnie long to notice that there were few men on the boat and no other passengers, which seemed rather strange. She had assumed there would be more people who would be going with them to Arran, but perhaps the council had arranged for the boat to take just her and her two guards.

“Excuse me,” Bonnie called to one of the men who was winding a piece of rope. “Are ye headin’ tae Arran?”

“Och aye,” said the man. “Who are ye, lass?”

“Me name is—”

Before Bonnie could finish her sentence, she began to feel a strange movement—one that the waves didn’t explain. Wide-eyed, she looked at the shore, which was getting smaller and smaller by the second, while neither Lachlan nor Finlay was there with her.

“Where are ye goin’?” Bonnie asked, panic tinting her tone. Her heart leapt to her throat and her hand shot out to hold onto the nearest thing she could find: the hoop of a barrel that stood near the mast. “We… me guards! Ye left me guards behind! We must turn around at once!”

“What guards?” the man asked. “We are nae meant tae bring anyone else. Nae one told me we’re bringin’ a lassie, either.”

Bonnie glanced at the other boat, which was still at the harbor and cursed under her breath. “I’m afraid I am on the wrong boat!”

The man’s gaze followed hers to look at the other boat still at the harbor, before dragging his gaze back to Bonnie. “Well, this is certainly a problem.”

“Turn around!” Bonnie begged the man. She was close to falling to her knees, close to tears, close to jumping into the sea and trying her luck as she swam all the way back. “Please!”

“We cannae turn around now,” the man said. “We have our orders from the captain. We maintain course.”

Bonnie looked helplessly at the man, then at the other boat, then back at the man, but he was already moving on to his next task, seemingly unbothered by the fact that Bonnie was on the boat all alone, while her guards had no idea what happened to her.

Finlay an’ Lachlan will be so worried. What will they dae? Will they ken I got on the wrong birlinn?

As she looked around for anyone who could help her—or at least listen to her—her gaze fell on the small room she had spotted before. It must have been the captain’s quarters, she thought as she approached it, determined to make the man listen to her.

It wouldn’t take them that long to turn around and bring her back to the harbor. They were still close and Bonnie could spare the extra gold if needed. She just had to reason with the captain, she told herself, and then everything would be fine.

She didn’t have the presence of mind to knock. In her panic, she threw the door to the small room open, the words already tumbling past her lips before she even took a good look inside.

“Sir, please, tell yer men that we must turn back,” she said, voice thin and reedy and on the verge of hysteria. The longer it took her to explain, the longer it took the man to listen, the more difficult it would be for her to make it back. “I am nae meant tae be here, it was me mistake, but in me defense, I didnae ken that ye would leave right that moment! Me guards, they are back at the harbor an’ we were meant tae take the other birlinn but I didnae ken that an’—”

Once again, Bonnie fell silent before she could finish her sentence, upon taking a better look at the dark room. There were no windows there. The only light came from the open door and from a torch that hung from the far wall, which shed a warm orange light on the scene before her eyes.

There was a man tied to a chair, beaten bloody and bruised. His face was smeared in crimson, drops of it dripping from his mouth on the floor below him, and his left eye was swollen shut, the skin colored a deep purple. It seemed that he couldn’t even raise his head to look at her, abused as he was.

Next to him stood another man, one who made Bonnie instinctively take a few steps back the moment she laid eyes on him. He was tall and broad, perhaps even more so than Finlay, with a mane of hair as dark as spilled ink. His eyes were just as dark, betraying nothing in the half-light of the room, and the beard that covered the lower half of his face gave him an even more menacing appearance.

What has he done? He is goin’ tae kill him if he continues!

Could this be the captain? But why was he torturing that poor man on the chair?

Bonnie didn’t ask. What if she provoked him and he unleashed his fury upon her?

Slowly, she began to backtrack, almost tripping on the hem of her dress as she tried to leave while keeping her eye on the man and reaching behind her for her bow and arrows. She hadn’t gotten far, though, before he began to approach her, that predatory gaze now fixed on her.

“Where dae ye think ye’re going, lass?”

Chapter Two

Half an hour earlier…

Evan shook his hand and flexed his fingers after a particularly vicious punch to the man in front of him. He didn’t know how long he had spent cooped up in that small room with him, trying to beat the truth out of the man to no avail, but he was getting tired.

“He’s nae speakin’.” Evan looked at his brother, Alaric, who stood across from him, leaning against the wall in that awfully casual way of his, while still somehow looking murderous. He had that effect, Evan knew. Though they resembled each other very much in build and features, Alaric sported battle scars and had marked himself with tattoos that gave him the aura of a much more dangerous man.

“I can see that,” Alaric said, rather unhelpfully, in his smooth baritone. “If he spoke, he could tell us everythin’ and we could get this over with.”

“But he willnae speak,” Evan pointed out. “How long have we been doin’ this? He’s half-dead. He willnae speak afore we kill him.”

“Dae ye want me tae try?”

Evan gestured widely with his hand as if to say his brother was welcome to try, though he doubted he would bring about any better results. It wasn’t as though he could hit him any harder or threaten him in any way Evan hadn’t already tried.

Alaric didn’t move from where he stood, but instead simply watched the man as he drooled saliva and blood on the floor. “Are ye certain he kens about Ruthven’s plans?”

“O’ course he kens,” said Evan with a scoff. “He’s supposed tae be an informant.”

“Supposed tae be,” Alaric repeated. “But what if our information is inaccurate?”

Evan took a moment to consider that possibility, but then shook his head, discarding it. “Nay… nay, we ken who he is. Our information is correct. We simply have tae break him. He kens about Ruthven an’ Balliol, I ken he does.”

Ever since John Balliol’s accession as King of Scots, Evan and Alaric had both been hard at work, trying to bring a quick end to his reign. Evan would rather die than serve a king who was nothing but a pawn to the English. After what they had done to his family, he wanted nothing more than to ruin them—and it all began with Laird Ruthven.

“Ruthven is a fool,” Alaric said, as if that changed anything for Evan. “He is a greedy man. How long dae ye think he has afore Balliol brings him tae ruin, too?”

“I dinnae ken an’ I dinnae care,” Evan said through gritted teeth. Perhaps Alaric was right. Perhaps in the end, the situation would take care of itself. After all, many were already displeased by Balliol’s rule and wanted him gone. Ruthven would get caught up in the conflict, eager as he was to please Balliol just so he could gain more land, more influence, more wealth. But Evan would be a fool, too, if he didn’t do his part to get Balliol off the throne and maybe, if he worked hard enough and was lucky enough, even get to the Hammer of the Scots—Edward I.

“Perhaps it would be wiser tae try an’ use the bride,” Alaric said. “If this lad willnae speak, she might be able tae help us.”

Evan had heard of the so-called bride of Laird Ruthven, a woman who was supposed to meet him in Arran, at the same wedding Evan and Alaric were going to be attending. He couldn’t fathom a way that he could use her, though, not when he didn’t even know who the woman was and not without putting her in danger.

As far as he knew, she was innocent in all this. It would be cruel of him to drag an innocent woman into a perilous plan when there were other avenues he could take.

“Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “We shall continue with our plan. We will go tae the weddin’ an’ we will try tae find proof of a connection between Ruthven an’ Balliol. An’ then, we’ll see.”

With a chuckle, Alaric pushed himself off the wall and approached Evan, giving him the kind of scrutinizing look that Evan had never liked to have directed at him. For all his rough and rugged appearance, Alaric was surprisingly insightful and capable of seeing right through him if he wanted.

“An’ this has naething tae dae with the fact that ye are avoidin’ yer own betrothal,” he said. “I’m sure ye’re nae tryin’ tae stall, are ye?”

Evan couldn’t help but roll his eyes, though his brother was not far off the mark. The truth was that ever since the council of Clan MacGregor had decided that he, as the laird, needed to have a wife, he had been doing anything in his power to delay that day for as long as he could.

He could only avoid his council that long, of course. The day would come when he would have to pick a woman to wed, but that day wouldn’t come so soon if he had anything to say about it.

“That isnae why I’m doin’ this,” Evan insisted, but then he gave a small shrug, fighting back a chuckle. “But it certainly helps.”

Alaric gave him a knowing look and a pat on the shoulder before he headed towards the door. “Well, I’ll see if we’re ready tae depart. Ye stay here an’ see if ye can get him tae talk.”

Evan nodded, watching his brother leave before he turned to the other man. For a moment, he thought he was unconscious, the pain and the abuse proving too much for his body to handle, but when he stepped closer, the man flinched in fear.

“Pretendin’ willnae help ye,” Evan told him with a weary sigh. “What will help ye is if ye tell me the truth.”

He had tried this before and the man had said nothing. This time, he said nothing as well, keeping all his secrets to himself. At first, he had insisted he knew nothing, but neither Evan nor Alaric had believed him. They had good informants and they had assured Evan that this was the man they were looking for—a man working for both Ruthven and Balliol, helping them exchange messages in secret. Evan was more inclined to believe his people than this man when he said he didn’t know anything.

“Alright, I suppose ye leave me nae choice but tae continue this,” Evan said as he approached the man once more and raised his fist, ready to strike.

And then the door opened, and Evan turned around to see not his brother there, but a woman he had never seen before.

He didn’t manage to say a single thing before the woman began to speak, a torrent of words tumbling past her lips. Evan frowned, trying his best to follow the path of her reasoning but quickly failing. She was saying something about turning back, something about guards.

Who is she? How did she get here?

And most importantly, what was he supposed to do now that she had seen him torture a man?

When she finally noticed what was going on, Evan saw the spark of fear in her eyes. Instantly, she began to backtrack, her hands reaching for her bow and an arrow, and Evan couldn’t help but wonder what kind of woman travelled with such a weapon.

It wouldn’t help her much against him. Arrows were good in long ranges, but he could get to her before she fired it.

“Where dae ye think ye’re going, lass?” he began but she interrupted him.

“Dinnae even think about layin’ a hand on me,” she said through gritted teeth. “I will kill ye.”

In two large strides, Evan reached her and grabbed her bow, yanking it right out of her hand and tossing it aside. That didn’t seem to faze her much, though, as she gripped the arrow in a tight fist and raised her hand, ready to strike. Evan managed to block the blow at the last moment, his hand grabbing her arm to still it as the other wrestled the arrow out of her palm.

The moment she was left without a weapon, the woman blanched, all the color draining from her face—and what a face it was. Despite her fierce character, she seemed like a delicate thing, bird-boned and soft-featured; a beautiful young woman who, under other circumstances, would have certainly caught his attention.

As it were, Evan had more pressing matters to consider than his sexual desires.

“What will I dae with ye?” he asked her as he kicked the door shut behind him. Though the crew had seen the man he and Alaric had brought on board, though they had heard his screams, Evan still thought it was better to keep him out of sight.

“Ye’ll let me go,” the woman said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Nay,” said Evan. “I dinnae think I will.”

As he spoke, he pulled the woman towards the stern, away from prying eyes and ears. The woman struggled against him, desperately trying to dislodge her arm from his grip, but Evan refused to let her go, even though there wasn’t much she could do. They were in the middle of the sea, after all. There was nowhere for her to go, nowhere for her to hide.

“Ye’re a brute!” the woman said, kicking him hard in the shin. Evan did almost lose his grip on her then, but he only grunted in pain and pushed her hard against the rail, crowding her against it. Like that, it was impossible for her to weasel her way out. He stood in front of her like a wall, refusing to budge.

“Who are ye?” he asked. “An’ what are ye doin’ on me birlinn?”

The woman blinked in surprise a few times, straightening up as she looked at him. “This is yer birlinn? Ye’re the captain?”

“I’m nae the captain but I have paid fer a private journey,” Evan said. “An’ I dinnae take kindly tae stowaways.”

“I’m nae a stowaway,” the woman said, trying to pull her arm from his grip once more. This time, Evan allowed it, only because she had no chance of escape. “I am Bonnie MacLaren o’ the MacLaren Clan. Me sister is the Lady Cathleen MacLaren. So, I willnae have ye treat me like this.”

Evan took a better look at the woman, noting the hands that seemed unused to manual labor, the tunic she wore, which was woven from a fine fabric, and the signs of a soft life. She certainly looked and spoke like a noble girl, and had Evan been in a better state of mind, he was certain he would have noticed sooner.

“I see,” he said. “An’ what, precisely, are ye doin’ here, Miss MacLaren?”

“I told ye,” said Bonnie, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. “I got on the wrong birlinn. I am travellin’ tae attend Laird Hamilton’s weddin’ an’ me guards told me tae board, but our birlinn was presumably next tae yers an’ I must have gotten confused.”

She didn’t seem to be lying, Evan thought. He couldn’t think of a reason why she would, but one could never be too careful. Bonnie had already seen too much; Evan had to keep a close eye on her.

“Well, ye ken who I am now,” Bonnie added, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Who are ye?”

“Laird Evan MacGregor,” Evan said, biting back a smirk when he saw the shocked expression on Bonnie’s face. No one expected a laird to do the dirty work, Evan knew, but he didn’t mind getting his hands bloody. Some things had to be done and he could trust no one but himself and his brother to do them. “I am also headin’ tae Arran fer the weddin’. We shall go together.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, but Bonnie seemed to understand it as one and she immediately scoffed, shaking her head. “What makes ye think I will go anywhere with ye?”

“What other choice dae ye think ye have?” Evan asked. “Look where ye are… in the middle o’ the sea. An’ after what ye’ve seen, well., I cannae simply let ye go.”

He watched as Bonnie looked around her, realizing perhaps for the first time the severity of the situation and the fact that she truly had no option but to be on that boat with him. Then, her gaze met his again and her bottom lip shook as she spoke.

“What will ye dae tae me?”

“Naething,” Evan said. “As long as ye behave an’ dae as ye are told. Ye’re me property now, Miss MacLaren. Ye’ll dae as I tell ye.”

Bonnie rolled her eyes at him, much to Evan’s irritation. She tried to sidestep him by ducking under his arm, but Evan was quick to push her back against the rail, tutting softly at her.

“Where dae ye think ye’re goin’?”

“Anywhere but here,” Bonnie said. “Why? Are ye plannin’ tae tie me down like that poor man ye have in that room?”

“That man is more dangerous than ye ken,” Evan said, pinning Bonnie with a strict gaze. “An’ ye are nae tae approach him. Dae ye understand?”

Bonnie didn’t respond; not until Evan grabbed her arm, giving her a rough shake.

“I said, dae ye understand?”

“Let go o’ me!” Bonnie demanded, trying to once again push Evan away from her. “What is the matter with ye? Is this how ye treat all ladies?”

“It depends on how foolish they are,” said Evan. Though he didn’t let go of her quite yet, he slackened his grip, giving her some leeway. “Are ye foolish, Miss MacLaren? Are ye goin’ tae be trouble?”

Bonnie didn’t need to answer his question for Evan to know that she would very likely be more trouble than she was worth. What could he do, though, now that she had seen everything? He could hardly kill her, she was innocent. Her only mistake had been to get on the wrong boat and then open that door. And besides, she was not some faceless, nameless woman no one would miss. She was the daughter of a great laird, who even in death inspired other leaders. She was the sister-in-law of her clan’s laird. If Evan’s education on the other clans still served him well, she was also the eldest, though the mantle of the laird had not been passed on to her husband.

Unwedded, then? Was the youngest sister married first?

Perhaps he was confusing the sisters. It had been a long time, after all, since he had last concerned himself with the clans’ genealogies.

“If ye value yer life, ye will dae what I tell ye,” Evan said, the threat thinly veiled in his words. Even if he wasn’t actually going to kill her, Bonnie didn’t need to know that. The more afraid she was of him, the better. “Ye will accompany me tae the Hamilton keep. Until then, ye will sit quietly here on the deck an’ ye willnae speak tae anyone.”

Bonnie glared up at Evan, her eyes narrowing dangerously, but the effect was lost due to him towering over her. Even with her bow, there was little she could do to maim him in such close range, and she seemed to finally accept that as her shoulders fell and she leaned away from him as if disgusted by his mere presence.

“Good,” said Evan, finally pulling back. “Ye’re nae so foolish after all.”

As he turned around to head back to the small room and try to extract at least a morsel of information out of his other prisoner, he could feel her gaze boring into the back of his skull. The feeling followed him all the way there, and then even once he was inside, behind the confines of the door.

The entire time, a shiver ran down his spine.