Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Marsaili MacBain had ten days left of freedom, and she was spending them in hell.
The great hall of Freuchie Castle roared with voices raised in jest and argument, the clatter of cups on wooden tables, the scrape of benches across rushes that smelled of herbs and old ale.
Torches blazed in their sconces along the stone walls, casting flickering shadows that made the tapestries seem to move with lives of their own.
Grant warriors in their plaids crowded the long tables, fists wrapped around horns of ale, faces flushed with drink and the heat of too many bodies packed too close.
Serving girls wove between them with practiced grace, dodging wandering hands and carrying platters of roasted venison that made the air thick with grease and smoke.
Her brother Tavish had excused himself early, claiming exhaustion from the day's travel. She envied him his escape.
Across the table, Gavin Grant leaned back in his chair, his face flushed red beneath golden hair that fell carelessly across his forehead, his head tipped close to the ear of a warrior whose name she did not know.
His laughter cracked through the hall, loud and coarse, ending in a bark that made several men turn.
He lifted his hand in answer to them, knocking over his cup, ale slopping over his knuckles.
His gaze slid toward her.
“Best view in the hall,” he called, voice thick with drink, eyes sweeping over her in a way that lingered far too long for her comfort. “Worth the wait, I’d say.”
A few men laughed. One elbowed another. The serving girl nearest the table ducked her head and moved on.
Marsaili did not react.
She kept her eyes forward, her hands folded neatly in her lap, as though the words had passed somewhere behind her, unworthy of notice. She let the remark fall to the rushes like his spilled ale, already forgotten.
Ten days, she thought, with a steadiness that surprised even her. She had endured ten days of watching Gavin Grant drink himself into foolishness each night while she smiled and nodded and pretended this was bearable.
She kept her spine straight, her hands folded in her lap, her expression serene. It was a mask she had worn since arriving at Freuchie Castle. Since the morning her oldest brother Fionnlagh had clasped her shoulders and told her this marriage would save their people.
Years o’ raids and bloodshed, he had said, his dark eyes heavy with the weight of leadership only recently inherited.
I wouldnae ask if there was another way. This marriage can end the border feud, Marsaili. Ye can end it.
She understood, but it offered little comfort when she sat beside Gavin Grant and caught the sharp tang of ale on his breath as he leaned too near, his gaze lingering with an ease that made her skin tighten beneath her gown.
"More wine, me lady?"
Marsaili looked up to find a young serving girl hovering at her elbow, pitcher in hand. The girl could not have been more than fifteen, her eyes downcast, her movements careful. Marsaili recognized the wariness in her posture, the same wariness she herself felt.
"Nay, thank ye," Marsaili said quietly, offering a small smile she hoped was reassuring.
The girl bobbed a curtsy and withdrew at once, her relief evident in the quickness of her retreat, and Marsaili reached for her cup, taking a measured sip of the watered wine, just enough to ease the dryness in her throat without dulling her awareness.
Her gaze drifted then, skimming the press of bodies and torchlight with practiced detachment, passing over faces and movement, until it slowed and stilled of its own accord.
Laird Alasdair Grant stood near the far wall in quiet conversation with several of his men, his height setting him apart even in a crowded hall, his presence defined by the space that seemed to settle naturally around him.
His broad shoulders carried the shape of years of battle, and his dark hair was cut short and plainly.
When he turned his head, the firelight caught a faint scar tracing from just below his ear toward the corner of his mouth, a mark that lent his face a magnetic severity.
There was no effort in the way he held himself, no seeking of notice, yet her attention fixed all the same, drawn and held with a quiet insistence she had not invited.
Where Gavin’s voice and gaze pressed at her without permission, demanding acknowledgment she refused to grant, Alasdair required none at all, commanding her awareness through stillness alone.
Marsaili became aware that she was watching longer than courtesy allowed. She lowered her gaze only after the realization took shape, lifting her cup again with steady hands.
Even then, her attention lingered.
The brothers shared blood and little else, moving through the same hall as their paths curved away from one another like opposing forces, and she found herself wondering when she ought to stop noticing the space Alasdair occupied, and why the thought of doing so came with a resistance she could not quite understand.
As though he felt the weight of her attention, Alasdair’s gaze lifted unhurried toward the high table, and for a brief, unguarded moment his eyes met hers.
They were the color of winter skies, cold and clear, and the contact struck deeper than she expected, something tightening low in her chest as if her breath had been checked without warning.
His look held a sharp, measuring focus that made her acutely aware of herself, of the seat she occupied, of the bargain she represented in that hall.
She could not tell what passed through his expression then, whether the hardness she sensed was meant for her, but the weight of it lingered all the same, heavy enough that when he turned away and returned his attention to his men, the space he left behind felt abruptly altered.
Marsaili lowered her gaze an instant later than she should have, her heart beating fast, unsettled by the certainty that something had shifted, however briefly, and could not be undone.
She lowered her eyes before the sight could settle, smoothing her expression into something neutral as she reached again for her cup.
She felt the heavy rhythm of approaching steps cutting through the din and looked up in time to see Gavin bearing down on her at last, his stride uneven, his balance careless, the space at her side still conspicuously empty until he reached it.
That seat had been meant for him, but he had chosen ale and disrespect instead.
The chair scraped harshly as Gavin flung himself into it, landing with a graceless thud that sent a jolt through the table, and before she could draw a full breath he leaned toward her, crowding her space, the sharp bite of whisky rushing over her as his mouth curved in a smile meant to please himself.
Then, his hand fell on her thigh beneath the table.
Marsaili went rigid. The touch was intentional.
His palm was hot through the fabric of her gown, fingers squeezing possessively, claiming what he believed was already his.
Her heart kicked against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Every instinct screamed at her to jerk away, to slap his hand aside, to make a scene that would echo through the hall.
But she had a terrifying suspicion that resistance would only make him worse.
She shifted in her seat by a fraction, careful and controlled, angling her body just enough to ease the pressure of his hand without drawing notice, her gaze steady ahead as though nothing had changed, as though her skin had not tightened beneath his grasp.
Her face remained serene, as though his proximity meant nothing at all.
"Why dae ye pull away from me, lass?" he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "We are tae be wed soon. Ye’ll need tae grow used tae closeness."
Heat flooded Marsaili's face—rage, white-hot and consuming. She swallowed it down like poison, forced her expression to remain calm. To anyone watching, they would appear as nothing more than a betrothed couple sharing quiet words, but Marsaili’s instincts knew there was nothing innocent about his words.
"Ye are shy," Gavin continued softly, a hint of amusement in his voice. "But ye neednae be. A fortnight passes quickly, and then we shall grow more accustomed tae one another."
Marsaili's jaw tightened, but she kept her gaze forward.
She reached for her cup and took another sip of wine because it gave her hands something to do that was not wrapping around Gavin Grant's throat.
A serving girl approached with a pitcher, moving to refill the cups at the high table. Gavin's attention shifted immediately, his hand leaving Marsaili as he reached out to catch the girl's wrist. The girl froze, eyes wide, the pitcher trembling in her grip.
"And what is yer name, lass?" Gavin asked, his voice dropping to what he likely believed was seductive. "Such bonnie eyes ye have."
The girl's smile was strained, practiced. "Thank ye, me laird. But I must finish me duties-"
Gavin pulled her closer. "Tell me yer name."
Marsaili looked away. She could not watch this.
Her gaze searched for Alasdair Grant once more, but Gavin's laugh rang out again, pulling her attention back. He had released the serving girl, who fled with relief written across her face. Now he was deep in conversation with the men around him, gesturing broadly with his cup.
"And I say marriage is a fine thing fer a man," Gavin declared, his voice carrying just enough for nearby tables to hear.
"A wife tae warm the hearth, tae manage the household.
.." He paused, taking a long drink, his eyes sliding to Marsaili with a look that made her skin crawl.
"Tae provide all manner o’ comforts a man requires. "
The words were acceptable enough on the surface, but the way Gavin said them made Marsaili's stomach turn.
Marsaili stood. The movement was smooth, graceful, giving no indication of the fury boiling beneath her skin.
"Me laird," she said, her voice perfectly controlled. "I must retire. The hour grows late."
Gavin turned to her, his expression shifting from surprise to petulance. "Already? But the night is young! Sit, lass. Enjoy the feast."
"Fergive me," Marsaili said. "I find meself weary."
It was a polite lie but it gave her an escape, and she seized it before Gavin could think of a reason to keep her at his side.
"As ye wish," Gavin said, his hand reaching for hers. Marsaili stepped back before he could touch her, the movement quick enough to look like an accident. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he was too drunk to press the matter. "Rest well, wife-tae-be. I shall see ye soon.”