Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Three months later, Norham Castle
The sound of steel against steel echoed through the dungeon corridors like thunder in Moyra’s dreams.
She jolted upright on the filthy straw, her heart hammering against her ribs as shouts erupted somewhere above her head.
Three months of captivity had taught her to recognize the different sounds of Norham Castle—the changing of the guard, the delivery of her meager meals, the drunken revelries that sometimes lasted until dawn. But this was something else entirely.
This was battle.
Weapons clashed overhead. Heavy boots pounded stone corridors. Men roared orders and curses. Moyra shrank against the damp wall, pulse racing. Rescue? Or had death finally found Norham’s dungeons?
A scream cut through the din, followed by the wet sound of blade meeting flesh. Then another. And another.
“Holy Maither,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. The torn cloak provided no warmth—nothing could chase away the chill that had settled into her bones during those endless months of captivity.
Footsteps crashed down the stone steps—heavy, purposeful, fast. Moyra shrank into the corner of her cell, her back pressed against the cold wall, green eyes locked on the iron gate that stood between her and whatever was coming.
“Check every cell!” The voice was rough, commanding, and carried the unmistakable accent of the Highlands. “Leave nay stone unturned!”
Scottish. Her pulse quickened with a mixture of terror and desperate hope. Were these her father’s men? Or had some other Highland clan come to raid Norham’s treasures?
The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by the ring of steel.
Through the iron bars, Moyra glimpsed a massive shadow moving with lethal grace.
A guard rushed forward, sword raised, then fell with a choked gasp as the intruder’s blade found his throat.
Another guard charged from the opposite direction.
The tall figure spun, his movements fluid despite his size, parrying the attack and driving his sword through the man’s chest in one devastating thrust.
Moyra pressed herself against the wall, transfixed despite her terror.
The way he moved—there was a brutal elegance to it, a dance of death performed with absolute confidence.
He was tall, taller than any man she’d ever seen, with broad shoulders that filled the corridor.
Dark hair fell in waves to his collar, and even in the flickering torchlight, she could see the steel-grey eyes that swept the dungeon with predatory efficiency.
A long scar traced across one side of his face.
When the last guard fell, he stood among the bodies, barely winded. Then those steel-grey eyes found her in the shadows.
He was magnificent. And terrifying.
“Empty,” called another voice from a cell further down the corridor.
The Highlander’s search was thorough and relentless, his attention cataloguing every shadow. When those steel-grey eyes discovered her pressed against the wall, Moyra’s pulse stuttered to a halt.
“Well now...” His voice was whisky-rough and dangerously soft, the Highland burr making each word sound like a caress. “What’s a lass doing in a dungeon?”
He approached her cell door. Torchlight threw his battle-marked features into sharp relief.
“Please,” she whispered, shrinking further into the corner. “I’ve done naething wrong.”
His gaze swept over her—tangled auburn hair, torn silk that had once been fine. Even filthy and captive, she carried herself like nobility. His eyes sharpened.
“And ye are a Highland lass it seems… Stand up, lass.”
The command was quiet but absolute. When she didn’t immediately obey, he produced a key from somewhere within his dark cloak and unlocked her cell door with efficient movements. The iron hinges shrieked in protest as the gate swung open.
“I said stand up.”
This time, Moyra forced her trembling legs to obey. She rose slowly, keeping one hand pressed against the wall for support. Three months of poor food and little exercise had left her weaker than she cared to admit, but she lifted her chin with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Who are ye?” His accent was thick, each word rolling off his tongue like honey over stone.
“Nay one of importance,” she lied, her voice barely above a whisper.
He stepped closer, and she caught a scent of leather and steel that made her pulse race in ways that had nothing to do with fear.
The torchlight revealed more details—the way his dark shirt stretched across his broad chest, the corded muscles of his forearms, the calluses on his hands that spoke of a lifetime wielding weapons.
“How long have ye been here?”
“Months...”
His eyes studied her face with uncomfortable intensity. “What’s yer name?”
“I told ye, I’m nay one—”
Her words caught in her throat. Should she reveal who she was?
Her father had enemies—so many enemies. The MacLeods chief among them, furious over Keith MacKenzie’s marriage to Ishbel and his subsequent claims to their lands.
Then there were the Campbells, who’d feuded with the MacKenzies for generations.
Even some within her own clan questioned her father’s ambitions.
Any of them might use her as leverage. Or worse.
“I’m nay one of importance,” she finished, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue.
“Laird!” Another man’s voice echoed down the stone steps. “We’ve secured what we came for!”
Laird. Moyra’s blood turned to ice in her veins. This wasn’t just any Highland warrior—this was a clan chief. And from his accent and the authority he carried, she had a terrible suspicion about which clan he might lead.
The tall man—the laird—extended one large hand toward her. “Come along, lass. Ye’re coming with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere with ye,” Moyra said, finding some spark of her old defiance despite her circumstances. “I dinnae even ken who ye are.”
“That’s easily remedied.” He reached out and grasped her arm with surprising gentleness, pulling her toward the cell door. “And ye’ll come because the alternative is remaining here tae explain tae Sir Geoffrey’s remaining men why their dungeon is suddenly empty of prisoners.”
The logic was sound, even if she hated admitting it.
Moyra allowed him to guide her from the cell, though she kept as much distance between them as the narrow corridor would allow.
His presence seemed to fill the entire space, making her acutely aware of how small and fragile she felt beside his towering frame.
They climbed the stone steps in silence, emerging into the castle’s main courtyard where chaos reigned.
Bodies littered the cobblestones, and smoke rose from several of the outbuildings.
A dozen Highland warriors moved efficiently through the scene, gathering weapons and supplies with practiced ease.
“MacLeod!” one of them called out, jogging toward their small group. “The southern tower is secure, and we’ve found the—”
The man’s words died on his lips as his gaze fell on Moyra. Around the courtyard, other warriors paused in their tasks to stare at the bedraggled woman their laird had brought from the dungeons.
MacLeod. The name confirmed Moyra’s worst suspicions. This was Euan MacLeod—the very man her father had warned her about, the one whose lands Keith MacKenzie coveted above all else. The enemy she’d been hidden away from to prevent him using her as a political pawn.
And now she was standing in this courtyard, completely at his mercy.
“Mount up!” Laird MacLeod commanded his men. “We leave within the hour!”
Orders flew and men obeyed. Horses, weapons, provisions. All readied for immediate departure. Moyra watched the swift preparations with dawning horror. There would be no other rescue, no reprieve.
This was her chance. Perhaps her only chance.
While the laird’s attention was focused on organizing his men, Moyra took three careful steps backward toward the tree line that bordered the clearing. Then three more. The forest shadows beckoned dark and sheltering.
Freedom lay just beyond those trees.
She turned and ran.
Her bare feet flew over the rough ground, but desperation lent her speed. Behind her, she heard a sharp curse in Gaelic followed by the thunder of pursuit, but she didn’t dare look back. The trees loomed ahead, promising shelter and escape.
Almost there. Just a few more steps—
Rough hands seized her from the shadows at the forest’s edge, yanking her into the undergrowth. Moyra screamed and fought, but her captor’s grip was iron-strong.
“Got her!” The accent was English, not Highland. “Sir Geoffrey will want this one alive!”
More figures emerged from the forest—Arundel’s men who had survived the castle’s fall and retreated to regroup. The one holding her was a thick-set soldier with cruel eyes and blood staining his mail shirt.
“Let me go!” Moyra twisted in his grip, managing to drive her elbow into his ribs. He grunted but held fast, his fingers digging into her arms like iron bands.
“Hold still, you Highland bitch!” He shook her roughly, and she responded by stomping down hard on his instep.
His grip loosened for just a moment—but two more soldiers emerged from the trees, grabbing her flailing arms. She fought like a wildcat, kicking and clawing, her screams echoing through the forest. One of them caught her across the face with the back of his hand, and stars exploded across her vision.
“Hold her still,” the first soldier growled, struggling to bind her wrists as she continued to fight. “Hold her still, damn you!”
“I’m trying! The wench fights like a—”
Steel sang through the air, and the soldier’s words ended in a wet gurgle. Laird MacLeod’s blade protruded from the man’s chest, having pierced him clean through from behind. The English soldier pitched forward, dead. Moyra pulled free of his lifeless grasp.
“Mine,” MacLeod growled, his eyes blazing with fury as he faced the remaining English soldiers. “The lass is mine.”