Chapter Two
Scotland
February 1304
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There was no real need for Brody to climb to the top of the watchtower each day. Duncan, the captain of the guard, still patrolled the grounds nearly every morning with the same dogged determination he’d had for decades. Despite his advancing years—and though it took him twice as long as it once had—Duncan never failed to make his rounds. Perhaps the effort helped him stave off the stiffness that crept into old bones. Or perhaps, Brody thought wryly, like him, he found some comfort in the routine.
Brody’s own purpose was not so different: to do something. Move. Stay active. Anything to fight the restless energy that threatened to swallow him whole. He climbed the tower because it was a challenge, an act of defiance against his battered body and the doubts gnawing at the edges of his mind. The ladder, free-standing and angled precariously toward the platform above, required strength and precision—qualities Brody feared were slipping through his fingers like sand.
The platform, a small, roofed hut nestled atop the gnarled branches of a half-dead oak tree, offered little reward for his effort. The view was the same every day: a ghostly village, the outlines of crumbled cottages, and beyond them, the distant, enduring Highlands. And yet, the climb became his daily ritual, a stubborn declaration that he wouldn’t let his injuries dictate his life.
But the progress was maddeningly slow. Brody had learned to climb using only his good arm, the other hanging uselessly at his side. The first time he’d managed the ascent, he’d felt a flicker of pride. But now, weeks later, the flicker had died. It wasn’t enough. He could scale a ladder one-handed, aye, but what good would that do in a fight? He wasn’t training for some leisurely climb; he was a soldier, a warrior...now a laird. His people needed him to be strong, capable, unrelenting—
His people.
The very phrase chafed at him, sitting as uncomfortably as an ill-fitted helm. He’d been raised a second son, accustomed to being one of the people—just another soldier among hundreds of hard-fighting men—rallying under the banner of the MacIntyres, under the steady and sure leadership of his elder brother, Niall. With his brother having lost his life in the same battle that had mangled Brody’s body, the weight of leadership rested squarely on Brody’s shoulders, and he bore it not with pride but with a gnawing sense of inadequacy.
His people. A decimated clan. The MacIntyres, once a force to be reckoned with, had been reduced to a shadow of their former selves. The war had taken its toll, but it was not alone in its cruelty. Two winters ago, a relentless sweating sickness had swept through Dunmara, claiming lives indiscriminately and leaving gaping holes in the hearts and homes of the survivors.
And those who had been spared? Many had simply left, unable to bear the losses—or what they believed was the work of dark forces. Superstition ran deep in the Highlands, and whispers spread like wildfire: Dunmara was cursed. The illness, the deaths, even the war—all of it, they said, was the doing of malevolent spirits. Some swore they’d heard unnatural wails at night, others claimed to have seen shadowy figures darting through the mist. Whether true or not, such tales were enough to drive people away.
Sons, husbands, fathers, and brothers had been lost in battle, their absence echoing through the empty halls. The women and children who remained had packed what little they could and moved on, seeking brighter prospects far from the dark shadow of Dunmara and the evil they were certain lingered there.
Brody clenched his jaw, the ache in his arm a dull reminder of the injuries he couldn’t yet overcome. It was hard enough to feel like a warrior when he struggled to climb a ladder, let alone to lead what was left of his people.
Tightening his grip on the ladder’s rungs with his left hand, he forced himself upward, gritting his teeth against the dull, grinding pain in his left leg. The long, diagonal slice to his flesh there, gotten while he’d tried to remove his brother’s body from the battlefield, was still tender. He could walk without pain, though not without a limp, but the more vigorous exercise of climbing advised that the wound was far from healed.
It was a long climb to the top, and every step was a painful reminder of how far he still had to go.
But he’d climb it again tomorrow. And the day after that.
Brody hauled himself up through the hatch and onto the platform with a grunt, his boots thudding against the wooden boards. He straightened slowly, the biting wind immediately tearing through him. From this vantage, he could see the gray sky stretched endlessly over the desolate landscape, the trees below swaying in the frigid January breeze.
But it wasn’t the view that caught his attention.
It was the body slumped in the shadowed corner of the small hut that knitted his brow.
For a heartbeat, Brody froze, wondering if Duncan had come, and climbed, and had paid for the effort.
But no. The figure was too small, too slight to be the captain of the MacIntyre guard.
?Twas a woman, he judged in the next instant, based on the golden and loose hair spilling over her shoulder.
She was motionless, huddled against the rough wooden wall, her head tilted at an awkward angle.
Brody’s first thought was grim: she was dead.
He took a wary step forward, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his dagger. The woman looked entirely out of place, a splash of color and refinement against the crude, utilitarian structure. She was wrapped in what appeared to be a fur coat, but it had slipped off one shoulder, revealing a thin green dress that clung to her as if it were painted on. The fabric shimmered faintly in the pale light—silk? he wondered— entirely unsuitable for such harsh cold.
Her skin was pale, unnaturally so, and her lips were faintly blue. Brody’s chest tightened. She didn’t look like any woman he’d ever encountered. Not a village lass, not a noblewoman from the lowlands. She was something entirely different, her clothing and countenance both foreign and bewildering.
Cautiously, he edged closer, scanning her for any signs of life. His pulse quickened. There was no blood, no visible wounds—but how had she ended up here? The watchtower was difficult enough to climb under normal circumstances, and for a woman dressed in silks and furs and...wearing shoes of inexplicable structure, with a narrow stick jutting out from the heel, all but impossible, he might have imagined.
Brody crouched near the motionless figure, his breath clouding in the frigid air. Half expecting she would leap to life, presenting an attack, he moved his hand slowly until his fingers connected with the exposed column of her neck.
She was alive—barely. Her pulse was faint, and her skin like ice beneath his touch.
He shifted his hand to her shoulder, giving her a little shake, prodding her to wake.
Her body moved in reaction to his touch, but she was not roused.
“Aye, come on now, wake up, lass,” he encouraged, shaking her shoulder with a bit more force.
Still nothing.
She needed to be gotten out of the cold, was his next thought, but how? There was no way he could carry her down the ladder, not with only one good arm and leg.
He clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling up alongside his confusion. He cast a glance at the horn hanging just outside the hut, tethered to the pole by a length of icy rope. Used for signaling trouble to the keep, the sound would carry over the winds, bringing the guards running. They might curse him for the unnecessary climb to the watchtower for a woman who might well be dead by the time they arrived, but Brody wasn’t about to leave the woman here to freeze, couldn’t only watcher and do nothing.
He rose stiffly, the platform creaking under his weight as he reached for the horn, pulling it closer with a few jerks of the rope. It was cold and heavy in his hand, the metal rim biting into his lips as he sounded the call.
The blast echoed across Dunmara, a low eerie wail. He blew a second time, the sound cutting through the howling wind, sounding much as a weeping forest might, he’d always thought.
Brody crouched again, keeping an eye on the woman as he waited. Her fur coat, fine as it was, offered little protection against the Highland cold. The thin green dress was scandalous, revealing the turn of her bent legs, from the middle of her slender thighs to her shins, where the tall black boots reached. ?Twas not torn, though, as he could plainly see the fine, even stitching at the short hem. Her golden hair spilled around her face, and her features, delicate and striking, seemed out of place in the rough timber hut. On her right hand, on the third finger, she wore a gold ring, as shiny and smooth as anything that might have been found at court—when Scotland had a court...or a king. The design was a simple knot, seemingly of Celtic origins, but the craftsmanship was impeccable.
Who was this woman, and how had she ended up here, twenty feet above the ground in the middle of Dunmara?
A moment later, the muffled clomp of hooves and low voices broke through his thoughts. A handful of guards emerged from the trees below, craning their necks to peer up at the watchtower.
The captain of the guard, Duncan, called out, “Laird?” as an anxious question.
“Up here,” Brody barked. “Bring a litter—or a handbarrow if ye have to. There’s a...a woman up here, half-frozen.”
There was a pause, then hurried movement as the Dunman began the climb, barking out orders that sent two men back to the keep for a both the conveyances Brody had mentioned. Another guard followed Duncan’s slow awkward climb. The ladder groaned under their weight as they ascended, and soon one and then another appeared through the hatch in the platform.
Duncan’s bearded face tightened with confusion as he took in the scene. “Saints above,” he muttered, stepping closer and peering down at the woman. “Where’d she come from? Did ye strike her?”
“Nae, I dinna strike her,” Brody replied, his tone clipped. “?Tis how I found her when I poked my head through.”
Duncan nodded, going onto his haunches at her side, assessing the situation the same as Brody had, feeling for a pulse and giving her a little shake, both of which produced similar results: she was alive but dangerously incapacitated.
Duncan rose to his full height, several inches shorter than his laird, while Will, the lad who’d followed Duncan, took a turn inspecting the woman. He did not get too close, though, only bent at his waist from a distance that kept him just out of reach of the woman’s fur clad arm.
“What kind of hide is that?” Will asked of the black fur. “That’s nae any animal I’ve ever seen.”
Brody had thought the same thing, which only added to the puzzle of the woman, who she was and from where she’d come. But that was a question for another time.
“We need to get her down,” Brody said, his hands braced on his hips as he assessed the situation. His gaze flicked between Duncan and Will, weighing the merits of Duncan’s wiry strength against Will’s youthful vigor. Duncan had the experience but had lost some steadiness over the years. Will had the youthful energy, but did he have the strength?
The last thing Brody wanted was to add to the woman's obvious trauma by having her dropped from any height. He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “Carefully,” he warned, his tone leaving no room for error. “Nae mishaps.”
Neither man leapt to assure him they were up to the task. In fact, Duncan shook his head, chewing the inside of his cheek before muttering, “I’ll nae do it. Jesu, if I dropped her...” He trailed off, grimacing at the thought.
Brody suppressed the urge to curse. He didn’t need to say—aloud—that carrying an unconscious woman down a rickety ladder with his injured arm and weakened leg was out of the question. He rather hoped the hard scowl he leveled at them would convey as much.
As the three men exchanged glances, none of them eager to assume the role, Duncan suddenly straightened, inspiration striking. “Och, I’ll wait below,” he said, tapping Brody’s arm. “If ye let her fall, mayhap I can catch her.” And with that, he turned and made haste, disappearing down the ladder.
Brody turned his gaze to Will, who immediately straightened under the scrutiny.
“Aye, I’ll wait below with the Cap’n,” the lad said hastily, avoiding Brody’s piercing stare. “Four arms to catch seems a sound plan.”
And then he, too, was gone, lowering himself down with impressive speed.
Brody exhaled with annoyance, staring down at the unconscious woman.
Well, hell.
His gaze swept over her—small, delicate, curled slightly as if the cold had seeped into her bones.
He knelt beside her, his movements stiff from both the chill and his own lingering wounds. Carefully, he touched two fingers to her throat again, finding the flutter of a pulse beneath skin that was impossibly soft. Still alive. A small mercy.
Her hair, a riot of golden waves, was loose around her shoulders, and when he leaned in to slip his arm beneath her, a scent hit him—faint but unmistakable. Something... unnatural. He inhaled again, catching notes of something sweet, floral, clean. He’d never smelled anything like it before. It was enough to make him hesitate, just for a moment.
Then he shook himself. Later. He could puzzle over her strange scent later.
Bracing himself, he slid his good arm beneath her shoulders, the other beneath her knees, and lifted. She was lighter than he’d expected, her body limp in his arms, her curves molding against him while he inhaled again her alluring scent. His grip tightened instinctively as he adjusted his hold, not un aware how perfectly she fit against him, how natural it felt to cradle her against his chest.
His leg protested immediately as he rose to his full height, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to falter. The ladder narrow, the descent steep—no way to carry her down properly.
Muttering a curse, he shifted his grip and carefully maneuvered her over his shoulder, her upper body draped down his back, her long hair cascading past his waist. He secured her with one arm, using his injured side to stabilize her as best he could, while keeping his good hand free to grip the ladder’s rungs.
She stirred slightly, a soft murmur escaping her lips, which Brody took as a good sign—until the next second when he feared he’d caused her distress by aggravating some unseen wound.
“Bluidy hell,” he seethed.
Slowly, methodically, he descended. His injured leg burned with the strain, each step an exercise in control, but he pushed through, relying on muscle memory and sheer force of will. A quick glance over his shoulder showed Duncan and Will waiting below, arms raised as if expecting her to come tumbling down. Brody landed heavily on the packed earth, adjusting his hold before easing her down into his arms properly, which landed her head against his chest once more.
Duncan whistled low, shaking his head. “I was about to say ye should’ve just lowered her down to us,” he muttered. “But I see ye had it handled.”
Brody shot him a sharp look before turning his gaze onto the woman. Outside the gloom of the tower, he could see her face more clearly—very pale, her lashes dark against her cheeks, her lips slightly parted. And there was that scent again, clinging to her skin, her hair.
Brody tightened his grip on the woman, his patience wearing thin as he scanned the woods in the direction of the keep. "Where’s the damned litter?" he snapped.
Duncan shifted uncomfortably. "Mud an’ Coll went to fetch it, but—"
"But seem to be taking their own sweet time,” Brody finished, his voice a growl. The woman in his arms was still nearly lifeless, her breaths shallow against his chest, and his arm was protesting strenuously now.
His leg ached from the descent, but he ignored it. With a tight grimace for the pain, he turned and strode toward the horses, forcing speed into his awkward, uneven stride, to get there quickly before his leg gave out.
Duncan and Will scrambled in his wake.
Reaching his tall destrier, Brody barely paused before realizing the impossibility of what he intended. His arm and leg were already strained, and there was no way in hell he could mount with the woman still in his grasp. Not on a beast as massive as his.
Grinding his teeth, he turned to Duncan, shifting the unconscious woman in his arms. "Take her."
Duncan’s brows shot up. “Take her?”
"Briefly," Brody bit out, his patience fraying.
Duncan muttered something under his breath but took the woman carefully, adjusting her weight as if she were spun glass.
"Christ," Duncan muttered. "She smells... sweet."
Ignoring this—though he agreed wholeheartedly—Brody grasped the saddle and swung himself up, pain stabbing through his thigh as he pulled his bad leg over the horse’s back. He sucked in a sharp breath, settling into the saddle, gripping the reins tightly until the discomfort dulled. He looped the reins once around the pommel and reached down without a word.
Duncan handed her up, and Brody caught her beneath her arms, hauling her gently onto his lap, cradling her against his chest. She was warm, soft—far softer than anything he had held in years. Her hair brushed against his chin.
Duncan remained at their side, his expression bewildered. “Must be noble, aye? Only the highborn smell like a summer meadow in the dead of winter."
Brody scowled, even as he’d reached the same conclusion.
“Let’s go,” he said, which sent Duncan and Will moving toward their steeds.
With a sharp nudge to his horse’s flank, he wheeled the beast around. The woman stirred slightly, a small sound escaping her lips, but she didn’t wake. Brody glanced down, his gaze catching on the soft curve of her mouth, slightly parted in sleep. Her lips were full, flushed a shade deeper than the rest of her pale skin, as though kissed by warmth even in the cold. Something about the sight unsettled him, made his grip tighten slightly around her.
Who the hell was she?
And why did he feel, with a certainty he couldn’t explain, that he wasn’t going to like the answer?
He shook the thought away and pressed his heels into his horse, urging it into a faster gait.
He didn’t like mysteries.
***
Emmy’s eyes fluttered open. A faint, grayish light filtered into the tall-ceilinged room, though its source wasn’t immediately clear. She groaned softly, the sound scraping her dry throat, and shifted against something scratchy.
She blinked a few times, her vision sharpening, and took in her surroundings. The walls were made of stone, cold and bare, without a hint of modernity. A narrow bed beneath her supported her aching body, its coarse blanket doing little to fend off the chill. A single wooden stool and a short, battered cabinet across the room. A small table sat near the bed, with an unlit but previously used candle on it. The air smelled of damp stone and something faintly earthy, maybe herbs.
Where am I? She tried to sit up, tried to recall what had happened. Her body protested, her muscles screaming as though she’d run a marathon—or been hit by a bus. Wincing, she pressed her hands against the blanket to steady herself. Her fingertips brushed rough, unfamiliar fabric. She looked down.
A nightgown? When did I...? She stared at the plain, off-white garment draped over her body, its simplicity jarring for some inexplicable reason. That wasn’t right. Hazily, she tried to recall what she should be wearing.
Her silk dress, her fur coat—where were they?
Her pulse sped up, a steady thrum that only deepened the ache in her skull.
The memory of the street in Pitlochry surfaced, sharp and strange. The old woman—the one who looked like she’d stepped out of a fairy tale. Serena had scoffed, Vanessa had grimaced, but Emmy... had stopped. She could almost feel the woman’s hand again, light and electric, as it covered hers. She remembered clearly falling, fainting, the woman’s hand slipping from hers as she disappeared. The woman had simple vanished, Emmy distinctly remembered, her heartbeat increasing to a surely dangerous speed.
Her friends.
“Madison?” Her voice cracked as she called out, but the room swallowed her words. No answer. Only silence, broken occasionally by sporadic and muffled sounds beyond the heavy wooden door at the far end of the room.
She remained absolutely still for the longest time, staring at the door, her mind whirring with questions, afraid to rise and confront...whatever this was.
When she could stand it no more, she slowly pushed herself upright, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet met cold, hard wood, sending a jolt up her spine. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed them up and down her bare arms, glancing down at the sleeveless nightgown. Something awful must have happened, she supposed, knowing she wouldn’t otherwise be caught dead in such drab, coarse clothing.
Forcing herself to her feet, she watched the gown fall to the middle of her shins. Her ankles and feet, and painted pink toes were bare as well, peeking out from beneath the rough hem. Absently, digesting all that was strange, and everything that must have happened but that which she could not recall, Emmy pulled the wool blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. She glanced around again, taking in the room with growing unease. It was dimly lit by a dying fire in the large, crude stone hearth, the smoldering embers offering little in the way of heat or light. The room itself looked like something from a museum or a film set. It looked like a medieval monk’s quarters or maybe a peasant’s hut, with its sparse furnishings and utilitarian design.
Something was terribly wrong. There was no hum of city traffic outside, no glow of neon lights bleeding through the lone window, which was covered in a ragged cloth. Instead, there was only silence, thick and absolute, save for the occasional muffled noise from beyond the door.
Panic coiled in her gut.
Where the hell am I?
A distant sound outside the door—a voice, deep and unfamiliar—sent a chill skittering down her spine.
Her breath caught, her pulse drumming loud in her ears as she crept toward the door.