Chapter 1
Chapter One
“Easy.” She kept her voice low, one hand already moving toward the mare’s neck. The animal tossed her head once, sharp and insistent, nostrils flaring as she took in the air.
The mare stopped.
Not the slow reluctance of a tired animal, nor the distraction of something rustling in the bracken. This was a complete halt, ears flat, with the muscles beneath Isobel’s legs going rigid as iron. She felt the change ripple up through the saddle before she had fully registered it.
“What is it, Star?” Isobel murmured, scanning the path ahead. “What do you hear?”
The mare shifted her weight and refused to settle. Isobel let her stand, gently stroking the taut line of muscle beneath the mane with slow, soothing circles. She had been riding this horse, Star, since it was three years old. She understood the difference between nerves and warning signs.
“All right,” she said quietly, more to herself than to the horse. “All right. I’m listening.”
She tipped her head to the side and waited.
The forest had emptied. Not a single sound rose to her ears.
This was not the cozy quiet of a late summer afternoon; instead, it was something wiped clean—a silence with a strange sense of absence, as if everything that could run had already fled, and anything that couldn’t was holding perfectly still.
Then she heard it. Steel on steel, distant but unmistakable, cutting through the trees with a clarity that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. A shout followed, raw and guttural, quickly swallowed by the pines.
Turn around. You have heard that sound before, and now you should turn around and leave.
She sat with it for a moment, weighing her options. The logical part of her mind laid out the argument clearly. She was alone, a woman, unarmed, and whatever was happening beyond those trees was none of her concern.
None of my concern at all.
Isobel’s pulse pounded in her veins. She knew better than to ride through the woodlands on her own. She had endured hundreds of lectures regarding the dangers that lurked beyond and yet, she could not deny her curiosity.
Compelled to do so, Isobel urged Star to take one small step forward. She wished just to see what was happening. Then, she would gladly turn around and return home.
The snapping of a twig underfoot was loud, so much louder than it ought to have been, that Isobel jumped in her saddle.
She exhaled a half-laugh that was mingled with a sigh of relief as Isobel raised one hand and laid it on her chest. Her heart raced erratically and she had to take several deep breaths before she could even think clearly through what ought to be done next.
“Come on, girl,” she coaxed quietly as she used both hands to grip Star’s reins. “I’m sure there’s no harm in just taking a quick peek.”
She guided the mare off the path and toward the tree line.
Isobel dismounted where the trees thickened, looping the reins around a low branch and moving forward on foot, her skirts gathered in one hand.
The sounds grew clearer as she proceeded: the steady ring of blades, the splash and drag of boots in water, and the distinct grunts of men fighting against each other.
She lowered into a crouch and rested one hand on the side of a Scots Pine tree.
Once she was settled, she tilted her chin downward to survey the land.
A shallow stream sliced through the base of the slope, flowing swiftly and clearly over smooth stones.
Three men fought in and around the water, two against one, and the imbalance between them was immediately evident.
The two attackers lunged with frantic energy, swinging wide, wasting effort, and constantly losing their footing. The lone fighter moved differently.
Look away. Just move along.
But she didn’t move. She couldn’t. His dark plaid soaked through, and he was simply… efficient. That was the only word she could think of. He knew exactly how much each move cost, and he wasted nothing.
The defender, the Highlander, was tall and powerful.
He moved lithely through the water, as if the current were there to buoy him, rather than work as a hindrance.
He skipped from one stone to the next, never bothering to look down or check his footwork.
When he raised his dirk to swipe at one of his opponents, the Highlander’s arm muscles were on full display.
His biceps bulged with the effort of swinging the dagger so gracefully and the taut muscles in his forearms looked as though they were made of neatly braided ropes.
Isobel itched to reach out and trace her hand along the corded muscles, just so she could feel the tightness.
What are you doing?
Instead, she dug her fingernails into the bark of the pine tree and willed herself to be quiet, her pulse beating hard enough to make her lightheaded.
One of the attackers was short and stocky with a wide, barrel-chest. He moved with the most fervor.
No sooner had the Highlander slashed at him and this man rushed forward, barreling at the Highlander in a brutish manner.
The Highlander tossed back his head causing a glimmer of sunlight to catch his long locks of dark hair and make them look burnt red.
Isobel was dazzled by the gleam of those lustrous tresses momentarily.
You have to leave. Now.
She fell to her knees and scooted an inch or two closer to the battle.
Meanwhile, the Highlander sidestepped suddenly, causing the oafish attacker to fall flat on his face. The water-soaked aggressor turned his head to the side and spluttered through the rippling stream, “Don’t just stand there!”
The Highlander eyed his second opponent, waiting patiently for the strike to occur.
This other man, the one who held a sword in one hand and a small shield in the other, took his time before rushing into the battle once more.
Isobel could not be certain if he moved with such caution because he was exhausted from engaging in combat earlier or if he had simply learned his lesson.
“Attack,” the man in the stream shouted, as if to startle the Highlander and throw him off his guard. And that was when the second foe jabbed his sword at the Highlander’s chest.
He parried the blow as if he were swatting a pesky mosquito. Then, the Highlander raised his dirk and slashed at the second man. He scrambled backward several paces. The look of terror on his face was unmistakable.
Isobel gripped the tree trunk so fiercely she nearly pulled away a chunk of the russet-toned bark.
She had never seen anyone fight. Not truly.
She had heard about battles, of course, in the way that one hears about everything unpleasant at a careful distance.
She had not realized, until this moment, how watching men slash and tear at each other was an entirely different experience.
The Highlander moved with such skill and ease.
He might have been dancing through the creek and taunting his opponents.
But there was no jesting. No gentle teasing.
These three men were engaged in combat and Isobel… she was mesmerized by them… by him.
I should go. I’ve seen enough. I should absolutely go.
But then the man who had fallen before clambering to his feet. He and his compatriot made a tight circle around the Highlander.
Oh no. They’ve got him surrounded.
She pressed one hand to her mouth to keep herself from calling out encouragement to the lone Highlander.
The other hand she kept curled around the base of the tree trunk.
She could feel little flecks of bark grating into her nailbeds, but Isobel did not care.
She was riveted and could not leave before she learned how this battle might conclude.
She remained captivated, her breath caught in her throat, as she watched the Highlander charge with a low grunt against his attackers.
The Highlander pivoted sharply, his blade deflecting the first attacker’s sword with a force that caused the man to stumble sideways into the current. Then, in the same fluid motion, he brought the weapon back around, continuous and deadly.
Isobel’s stomach lurched hard.
The first raider went into the stream. The water changed color.
She forced her eyes away and then found herself drawn back despite everything, because she was incapable of doing the sensible thing.
The Highlander had already dismissed the fallen man and turned to the second attacker, who was obviously making a quick calculation: his teammate was down, the man across from him was not, and the far bank was just a few feet away.
The barrel-chested man moved slowly forward, taking his time now to approach the waiting Highlander.
Isobel gasped. She wanted to do something. She wished to say something. If she could make the men stop fighting this instant and save one more ounce of blood from being spilled, she ought to speak up, but…But she knew better than to intervene.
While her mind told her to turn and run…
to save herself before any of the men realized she was watching them, her heart reminded her that this altercation would not end until more blood was shed.
Her eyes lingered on the attacker who laid face down in the stream.
He had not budged an inch. There was no hope for him.
But she, Isobel Graham, could do something.
She could save these men from killing each other.
Slowly, she stood and relaxed her grip on the tree trunk.
She was just working through what to say and deciding how to catch their attention when she took a step forward and trod right on a twig.
It cracked underneath the heel of her boot.
Had the warriors continued their battle and not been sizing each other up, they might’ve missed the sound altogether.
But because the world was deadly silent, both men heard her approach.