Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
The night pressed heavy on the glen, a thick velvet silence broken only by the restless snort of Marian’s mare and the whisper of the healer’s voice.
“Ye’ve got everything ye need, lass?” Seoc’s hands were rough with years of grinding herbs and setting bones, but gentle as he tightened the strap of her saddle. His head bent close to the horse’s flank, the firelight from the lantern throwing deep shadows across the lines of his face.
Marian could not answer at once. Her throat felt raw, as if every word she had swallowed those last years had lodged there, choking her when she needed speech most. She only nodded, fingers curled around the worn leather reins as though they were the only thing holding her upright.
Seoc straightened, the stoop of his shoulders more pronounced than ever, his graying hair caught by the lantern’s glow.
“Then ye’ll be ridin’ straight fer Tor Castle. Kenina kens ye’re comin’, though nae who ye are. The name ye carry, lass…” His voice faltered, heavy with a grief he tried to mask. “Best keep it buried, aye? Fer yer own sake.”
She shut her eyes against the sting. To hide her name was to hide her father, her brother, her mother—all that she had left of them. But it was her only chance.
“Aye, I will,” she whispered, though her voice broke.
Seoc’s gaze softened. For years he had been more father to her than any laird could claim.
She thought of the hours spent in his hut, the air thick with rosemary and woodsmoke, where he had listened to her as though her thoughts mattered.
It was the only place in Mackenzie lands where she could breathe, where she was not watched or measured.
Seoc’s lessons were patient, his silences kind.
He had never asked her to be a pawn or a promise, only herself.
Seoc reached for her hand. His palm was rough, the ridges of old scars pressed into her skin, yet his touch was steady.
“I’m proud o’ ye, lass,” he said, voice low and sure.
“Proud ye’ve the courage tae choose freedom, even when it scares ye.
The world will take enough from ye without ye givin’ it yer will as well. Remember that. Hold fast tae it.”
A tear slipped free before she could stop it. She dragged her sleeve across her cheek, but Seoc saw. He always did.
“Ye’ve a healer’s heart, lass,” he said softly. “Dinnae let the world harden it. Learn from Kenina, keep tae the herbs, the roots, the small mercies. That’ll be yer strength. And if ye’re ever lost—remember the plants will always answer. They dinnae lie.”
Marian let out a shaky breath. “And ye, Seoc? What if they punish ye fer helpin’ me?”
His eyes twinkled despite the weight of the moment.
“Och, I’m an auld man. They’ll nae see me as worth their rage.
And if they dae—” He shrugged, a quiet defiance in the gesture.
“I’ve lived long enough wi’ their chains about me neck.
Ye’ve the chance tae cut yers. Go. That’s all the thanks I need. ”
She could not speak. She only leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his hand for one brief moment, letting the warmth of him steady her before it was gone.
Then she mounted. The mare shifted beneath her, eager, sensing the night’s tension. Seoc gave the animal a last pat and stepped back.
“Ride swift, Marian. And dinnae look back.”
The words lodged in her chest as the horse carried her into the dark. She did not look back, though every part of her wanted to.
The night pressed close around her at first, heavy and suffocating, the silence broken only by the sound of hooves striking earth.
With each stride she felt the ground of Mackenzie land fall further behind, yet the weight of it clung to her shoulders all the same.
Freedom was before her, vast and unmarked, but it felt as perilous as it was precious.
The moor opened wide before her, a sweep of heather and stone silvered by moonlight. The wind caught her hair, tearing strands loose from her braid, whipping them across her face as she urged the mare faster. Each hoofbeat was a drum of defiance, a rhythm louder than the pounding of her own heart.
Still, fear clung to her like a second skin. Every shadow seemed a rider. Every gust of wind sounded like pursuit. She pressed low over the horse’s neck, whispering prayers she was not certain reached any God who cared to listen.
Her chest tightened, thoughts spiraling backward as they always did in silence.
To the days when she was still Marian Matheson, daughter of a laird whose land no longer existed.
Before the noose took her father and exile claimed her brother.
She had been young then, but not so young that she did not remember the sound of her brother’s laughter.
Her mother’s face lingered most of all, pale and strained at the window as the redcoats marched her husband to the gallows.
The Mackenzie laird had taken her in after her mother’s death, but not from kindness. His eyes had always weighed her as though she were coin to be spent. He spoke of her as his son Wallace’s bride long before she had been old enough to know what marriage meant.
The thought of Wallace Mackenzie intruded, sharp as a blade. He looked at her with pride as though she were a prize hound he had trained, his consolidation of power, nothing more. His smile always carried that weight, a reminder of the marriage that awaited her once the vows were spoken.
But after that night, there would be no more. This was the one night to turn the course of her life. Her hand tightened on the reins until her knuckles ached. No. She would not bend her neck.
The road to Inverness stretched long and cold. The moon dipped low, and with it her strength waned. Yet every mile carried her closer to the chance Seoc had carved for her, the path he had risked himself to open.
He had written to Kenina, the famed healer of Clan Chattan, asking her to take in an apprentice without naming who she truly was.
They would never take her if they knew she belonged to the Mackenzies, because such ties carried too much danger.
However, under another name she might be accepted.
It was the only door left unbarred, and Seoc had pressed it open with steady hands and quiet courage.
The days blurred together in the rhythm of hoofbeats and breath.
Morning bled into evening, then into morning again, her body aching with the strain, her eyes stinging from sleepless hours.
Yet still she pressed on. Though weariness gnawed at her bones, freedom burned fiercer, carrying her farther than she ever thought her limbs could bear.
When at last the walls of Inverness rose ahead, relief nearly unseated her.
The town lay quiet in the early light, smoke curling from chimneys, the air alive with the faint stirrings of trade.
She slowed her mare at the edge of the cobbled street, her gaze sweeping past shuttered shops and narrow lanes until it caught on the warm glow spilling from an inn’s windows.
A painted sign swung above the door, creaking softly in the early morning wind, and the sight of it struck her like a promise, a place to breathe.
She guided her mare toward the inn’s stable, sliding stiffly from the saddle. Her legs buckled, and she gripped the doorpost until the wave of weakness passed.
The stable smelled of hay and horseflesh. She stroked her mare’s neck, whispering thanks, before handing the reins to the boy who had hurried out.
“See her fed, lad,” she murmured, slipping him a coin. “She’s carried me far.”
The boy’s eyes widened at the silver. He bobbed a quick nod and led the mare toward the stalls at the far end of the stable, leaving Marian to gather her satchel and rest a hand along the mare’s damp neck.
The steady rise and fall of the animal’s breath, the scent of hay and warm hide, the quiet rustle of hooves shifting in straw, wrapped her in a fragile calm.
For the briefest moment, she let herself believe she was safe.
Perhaps, at last, fortune had chosen her side.
But the moment shattered as the door creaked open behind her.
Three men entered, broad-shouldered, cloaked in Mackenzie colors that struck terror like a blade. Her breath seized. She knew one at once. Ivor, Wallace’s friend. His hound. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.
“Ye seen a lass pass through here?” Ivor’s voice cut sharp, aimed at the boy. “Chestnut hair. Green eyes. Rides a dark mare.”
Time slowed. Marian’s heart thundered. She willed the boy to lie, to shake his head, to do anything but—
The boy’s gaze darted to her. His hand lifted, pointing straight.
Marian’s blood turned to ice. Her body moved before her thoughts could catch it.
She lunged toward the side door, skirts gathered in her fists, boots pounding against the packed earth.
The stable filled with the echo of shouts, iron on stone, men cursing as benches scraped.
Her breath tore in her throat, ragged and hot, but she did not dare look back.
“Get her!” Ivor’s voice cracked like a whip, sending fear lashing down her spine.
The mare neighed behind her, startled by the commotion. Marian’s heart clenched, but she forced herself onward. Each step was a plea to let her feet hold, let the ground not falter, let her free.
A shadow loomed beside her, heavy boots closing in fast. Fingers like iron clamped around her arm, wrenching her sideways.
Pain shot up her shoulder, a cry bursting from her lips.
She fought, twisting hard, but his grip only bit deeper.
The scent of sweat and steel smothered her, the rasp of his breath too close.
“Got ye now,” the man growled.
Nae yet.
Her gaze caught on a pitchfork leaning against the stall post. Hope flared wild in her chest. With every ounce of her weight she swung, snatching the haft in both hands and driving the tines upward. The sharp iron ripped through cloth and into flesh.
The man roared, the sound guttural, shock and pain mingling as his hold slackened. Hot blood splattered her sleeve. Marian yanked free, heart hammering, vision dizzy with fear and triumph both. She didn’t wait to see if he’d fall, she just ran.
Her breath came in tearing gasps as she burst through the stable door and into the inn. The dim room yawned empty, shadows stretching long across the floorboards. The tables were bare, benches deserted. The silence rang louder than a shout.
Panic clawed at her ribs. Where was everyone?
Then she remembered—today was the fair. Every soul in Inverness would be gathered in the market square, leaving the inn hollow and still.
“Saints guide me,” she whispered, voice breaking.
The door behind her crashed open.
She spun and fled the other way, skirts tangling round her legs, feet stumbling over the uneven boards.
Bursting into the morning light, she blinked against the brightness, the noise, the crush of people filling the square.
Stalls lined the cobbles, hung with bolts of cloth, barrels of salted fish, baskets of fruit.
Children darted between women haggling, men called prices, fiddlers scraped at strings.
And into that chaos Marian ran.
Her lungs burned, but the fair gave her cover. She shoved past a woman carrying bread, dodged a cart laden with wool. A man cursed as she overturned a bucket of apples, red and green rolling like marbles beneath boots. Shouts rose behind her, harsh Mackenzie voices cutting through the din.
She glanced back once and wished she hadn’t. Ivor’s dark hair caught the sun, his gaze locked to her like a wolf sighting prey. Two more followed, forcing through the throng, shoving aside anyone in their path.
Adrenaline surged, hot and blinding. She pushed harder, weaving fast as the crowd thickened.
Every breath scraped her throat raw, but she clung to the thought of her freedom lying ahead.
If she could make it past the gates, out of Inverness, toward Tor Castle and the Highlands beyond, she might yet vanish.
A stall toppled in her wake, baskets of turnips scattering. Someone screamed. Marian ducked beneath an awning, slid between two oxen, the reek of dung and sweat clogging her nose. Hands reached for her from the crowd, some to help, others to hinder. She tore free of them all.
Her mind spun. She had no plan, only the need to run, to be gone. Seoc’s words burned behind her eyes.
The world will take enough from ye without ye givin’ it yer will as well.
She could not give them her will. She would rather die there in the dust than crawl back to Wallace’s cage.
She burst from the press of bodies into a side lane, her feet skidding on damp stone. For a heartbeat, silence. She dragged in air, chest heaving, legs trembling beneath her.
Then heavy steps pounded close.
She bolted again, darting round a corner, only to crash into another broad chest. Hands seized her, two this time, pinning her arms, forcing her down. She shrieked, twisting, kicking, her nails scraping flesh. Her knee drove upward, striking hard. One man cursed, but still they held.
“Let me go!” Her voice broke into a sob, raw with rage and terror. She fought like a wild thing, skirts tearing, hair coming loose in a dark snarl around her face. Her cheek struck stone as they forced her down, grit biting her skin. The world spun, the taste of iron filling her mouth.
Ivor loomed above her, shadow falling long across the cobbles. His smile was thin, cruel, the satisfaction of a hound that had run his quarry to ground.
“Ye gave us a good chase, Marian,” he drawled. “But it ends here.”
Her body shook with exhaustion, but still she thrashed, her heart screaming louder than her voice. Every part of her burned to keep moving, to keep clawing toward freedom, though the weight of three men pressed her to the earth.
She thought of her father, her brother, her mother’s face at the window. Of Seoc’s scarred hand wrapped round hers in farewell. Of the herbs hanging in his hut, lavender and rosemary drying in peace.
I’ll nae be their pawn.
But her breath faltered, and her strength slipped away beneath their grip.