Prologue
Iona Pearson had always known her life would end badly. She simply had not expected it to feel so ordinary while it crept toward her.
Rain plastered her ginger curls against her cheeks as she stood across from the inn, water dripping from the hem of her sodden skirts.
The sign above the door swung and groaned in the wind.
Laughter spilled from within each time someone entered or left.
Warmth. Food. Shelter. Everything she should avoid if she wished to remain unseen.
She was going to die. She felt it in the tightness between her ribs, in the way shadows seemed to lengthen when she walked alone.
After what she had done, there was no other ending for her.
Yet death did not quiet the gnawing in her belly or the tremble in her limbs.
She had been running for hours. The rain had soaked through her thin shawl. Her boots squelched.
“I cannae keep standing here,” she muttered to herself, lifting her chin.
Iona had survived worse than a crowded inn.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Heat struck her first, thick and almost suffocating. The air smelled of ale, damp wool, and roasting meat. The place was packed. Men crowded every bench, boots propped on stools, laughter loud and careless. No one spared her more than a passing glance at first.
Until they did.
The dining area was full, every table claimed, save one near the hearth. The flames licked high and bright, throwing gold across the room. At that table sat a single man.
He occupied the space as if it belonged to him.
Tall even while seated. Broad shoulders straining against a dark tunic, damp at the seams. Black hair fell to his collar, one pale streak near his temple catching the firelight. A beard shadowed his jaw. His gaze remained fixed on the tankard in his hand as if it had offended him.
He did not look like a man who welcomed company.
Still, Iona made straight for him.
Each step toward that table tightened a churning low in her stomach. She could feel eyes following her now. Curiosity. Amusement. Pity.
When she reached the hearth, she folded her hands before her and said, “May I sit at the corner? I willnae trouble ye.”
The man took another swallow, set the tankard down with a muted thud, then lifted his eyes.
Brown. Deep and sharp as wet earth.
He watched her for a moment that strained uncomfortably long. Then he grunted once.
It was permission.
She slid onto the far edge of the bench, careful to keep distance between them. Heat from the fire seeped into her chilled bones. For a moment, she allowed herself to close her eyes.
Around them, murmurs rose. A few men shook their heads. One laughed under his breath as if she were a fool walking into a lion’s den.
Let them think it.
The innkeeper lumbered over, wiping his hands on a stained cloth. “What will ye have, lass?”
Iona’s throat tightened. “Bread. Stew if ye have it. And a bed for the night.”
The innkeeper’s brows lifted. “Coin first.”
She held his gaze, steady though her palms dampened. “I havenae any. But I can scrub floors. Wash dishes. Mend linens. I will work till dawn if I must.”
The innkeeper snorted. “I arenae running a charity. Out with ye.”
She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Please! I will do any task ye set me.”
“Nay.”
Humiliation burned hotter than the hearth. She opened her mouth to try again when a heavy clink cut through the noise.
Coins scattered across the table between her and the stranger.
The innkeeper’s eyes widened.
The man’s voice was low, controlled. “Food. Ale. A room for her tonight. And quiet.”
He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.
The innkeeper gathered the coins quickly, nodding. “Aye, sir.”
When he hurried away, Iona turned slowly toward her unexpected savior.
“Thank ye,” she said, meaning it. “Ye didnae have to do that.”
He shrugged once.
Up close, she noticed the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tightened around the tankard as though it were the only solid thing left in the world.
“Iona Pearson,” she offered, extending a damp hand.
His gaze dropped briefly to it, then back to her face. He did not take it.
She withdrew it without offense. “And ye are?”
He did not answer.
“Well,” she pressed lightly, because silence made her restless. “If I am to share yer fire and yer table, it seems fair I ken the name of the man who rescued me from starvation.”
His eyes narrowed faintly.
“Do ye often rescue strange lasses?” she continued, forcing brightness into her tone. “Or was I merely the most pathetic sight in the room?”
A muscle ticked in his cheek.
“Ye talk too much,” he muttered.
“I have been alone on the road for days. If I daenae speak now, I might forget how.”
He took another swallow of ale.
Her eyes assessed him openly. Strong hands. Scars along the knuckles. Grief sat on him like a cloak, heavy and unyielding.
“Are ye all right?” she asked softly before she could stop herself.
His gaze snapped to hers, sharp enough to cut.
“As if that question would make it better?” he said.
“I only meant –”
“Me father died.”
The words landed between them like a dropped stone.
Ah.
That explained the storm in his eyes.
She did not offer hollow comfort. She knew better than that. Instead, she nodded once. “Then I am sorry for yer loss.”
He looked at her as if measuring whether she pitied him.
“I daenae pity ye,” she added quietly. “I ken what it is to lose everythin’.”
For the first time, his expression loosened. Not with warmth. But attention.
The innkeeper returned with a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread, setting them before her. The scent alone made her dizzy.
She hesitated only a heartbeat before eating.
Across the table, the stranger watched her for a long moment. The ale had loosened the anger and grief in him. His shoulders sagged, and when he spoke again, his voice carried a rough honesty that had not been there before.
“He left me with debts,” he muttered. “Debts and a hundred people looking to me for answers that I still daenae yet have. Every one of them expects me to fix what he ruined. Failure isnae an option.”
Iona tilted her head, studying him. Beneath the hard lines of his face, she saw exhaustion. Responsibility clung to him like a heavy cloak.
“Ye helped me,” she said simply. “A stranger dripping rainwater on yer floor. If ye can spare kindness for someone ye daenae ken, I am sure ye will do even better by the folk who matter to ye.”
He glanced at her then, truly glanced, as if weighing her words. His anger eased in his gaze.
“Aye?” he said.
“Aye.”
He signaled the innkeeper with a lift of his tankard. Another round arrived quickly. Iona laughed under her breath at the speed of it.
They drank.
The fire crackled. The noise of the inn blurred into the background. With each swallow, the tightness in her chest loosened. The stranger’s voice grew steadier, less guarded.
“And ye?” he asked at last. “Where are ye running from, lass?”
She hesitated. Truth hovered at the edge of her tongue, dangerous and tempting.
“I left behind everythin’ I kent,” she said carefully. “Sometimes that is the same as dying, is it nae?”
His brow furrowed slightly, but he did not press.
They spoke of regrets then. Small ones at first. Roads not taken. Words unsaid. The ale warmed her limbs, and for the first time in weeks she felt… lighter. Reckless.
She stared into her cup and heard herself whisper, “I suppose I will never feel the warmth of a man before me life ends.”
He huffed a quiet breath. “That seems a grim thought.”
Her eyes widened. He had heard her. Then she quickly recovered. “I am merely practical,” she said, though a shy smile tugged at her mouth. “Some of us just arenae meant for soft endings.”
His gaze slid over her slowly, lingering just enough to make her pulse jump. “Ye daenae look like someone meant to be alone.”
Heat crept up her neck. She met his eyes, boldness rising with the drink. “And ye didnae look like a man who enjoys drinking alone either.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them was charged and uncertain.
“What is yer name?” she asked.
“Frederick,” he replied.
The name settled over her like a secret.
“Frederick… Fred-er-ick,” she repeated.
She watched as his eyes fell to her lips as she tested the shape of his name.
Later, she would struggle to remember who stood first. One moment, they sat by the hearth, the next she was climbing the narrow stairs ahead of him toward the room he had paid for.
She felt his fingers close gently around her skirts as if asking permission without words. The slight tugging sensation sent a slow shiver up her spine.
His gaze was on her back as they reached the landing, heavy and deliberate, and when she glanced over her shoulder, his eyes were dark, not with drunken haze alone but with a hunger that made her breath catch and her steps faltered for half a heartbeat before she pushed the door open.
The door shut behind them. Candlelight flickered across the small chamber.
She laughed softly, nerves and anticipation tangled together. “If this is madness, at least it is warm madness.”
He watched her with an intensity that stole her breath. “Ye can change yer mind.”
“Nay,” she whispered, surprising herself with the certainty in her voice.
The night blurred into warmth and whispered laughter.
His touch was careful at first, and she found herself guiding him closer, teasing him for his hesitation.
The world beyond the walls faded away. There was only heat, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and a rare sense of safety she had never known.
It was not about promises or futures. It was simply a moment stolen from fate.
As they lay together, tangled together beneath rough wool blankets, she drifted into sleep first with her cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the slow thud of his heart.
Iona woke first. Just as the pale blue light of the morning crept through the shutters.
Frederick’s arm was wrapped around her waist, his hand resting possessively against her side even in sleep. His face looked younger without the tension that usually carved his features. A lock of dark hair fell across his brow, the pale streak catching the sun.
She lay still, watching him.
For one irrational heartbeat, she felt safer than she ever had in her life.
I could stay, a reckless voice whispered inside her.
She closed her eyes tightly. Nay. Staying meant being found. Staying meant bringing danger to him.
Carefully, she slipped from beneath his arm. The air felt colder without his warmth. She dressed quietly, gathering her damp things from the chair.
Her gaze fell on the small pouch of coins near the bedside.
Her stomach twisted.
“I am sorry,” she murmured under her breath.
She picked up only a few pieces, just enough to survive another stretch of road. Her hands shook as she tied the pouch again and set it back exactly where she had found it.
At the door she paused.
Frederick tossed slightly in his sleep, brow furrowing as if he sensed her leaving. She stepped closer once more, unable to stop herself. For a moment she simply looked at him, memorizing the curve of his mouth, the strength in his shoulders.
“I will pay ye back,” she whispered. “If I survive long enough.”
The words felt like a vow she had no right to make.
Then she slipped out into the corridor and disappeared down the stairs, leaving behind warmth, coin, and the only night she had ever allowed herself to forget she was being hunted.