Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Her throat burned from screaming. Her arms ached where rough hands clamped them, dragging her across the cobbles like she was nothing more than a sack of grain. Marian kicked and thrashed, nails raking skin, her voice tearing ragged from her lungs.
But the crowd only stared, eyes glancing, then turning away again, like shutters closing against a storm. Mothers tugged children closer, men bent their heads as though a woman’s struggle was no concern of theirs.
“Let me go!” she cried, her voice breaking. “Saints, help me!”
Not a soul moved to help her.
Despair struck colder than the men’s grip, colder than the stones beneath her feet.
The sight of people who could help, but would not, was worse than chains.
She tasted blood on her lip where it had split, salt stinging her tongue.
The world narrowed to the scrape of her body dragged across the ground, the iron weight of men’s hands crushing her to the earth, the terror that clawed at her ribs.
That was it. She’d risked everything for freedom, and it would end there in the filth of Inverness. Wallace would have her caged before nightfall, and the taste of air she’d stolen would vanish like it had never been hers.
Her body burned with rage at the thought. She would not go back. She would die there in the dirt first.
Marian twisted hard, wrenching against their hold until something popped in her shoulder. She screamed again, high and sharp, not only in pain but in fury. “I’ll nae go back tae—”
“What’s this?” A low, steady voice cut through the clamor, unhurried, like steel sliding from its sheath.
The men jerked her upright, startled, and Marian’s head whipped round. Through the ring of onlookers, a figure moved closer.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of ease that spoke of strength contained rather than flaunted.
Sunlight struck his hair and turned it to gold, a bright and untamed crown that caught every glance.
His eyes, hazel and sharp as cut amber, swept the street with a steadiness that made the air feel altered around him.
Ink coiled dark along the skin at his collar, the edge of a tattoo vanishing beneath his sleeve, a mark of defiance that only drew the eye further.
His coat was travel-worn, his stride unhurried, yet there was something in the way he carried himself, a presence that belonged to danger as much as to beauty, that made every head turn to look.
Her breath snagged. Who—?
Her captors shifted uneasily, as if they felt it too, though they tightened their grip on her arms. The man’s gaze swept over them once, then settled on Marian. And in that instant, her fear cracked.
The world had been cold stone, sharp voices, empty faces—but his eyes, steady as the earth, landed on her, and for the first time since the stable she felt seen.
“What’s wrong, lass?” he asked, voice carrying like calm across the fair’s chaos.
Marian’s lips parted, but no sound came. Her captors filled the silence.
“This is nae o’ yer affair,” Ivor spat. “Best walk on, stranger.”
The man did not move. He only looked at them as if he were considering something small, unworthy of much thought. Then his gaze flicked to her again, and Marian’s pulse lurched.
Saints, he was… handsome didn’t even touch it.
He looked like he’d been carved out of stone, all hard lines and quiet fire, the kind of man who could break another in half and not lose his breath.
Her mind reeled. Her body throbbed with fear, but beneath it something else sparked, bright and wild, so new she hardly knew how to name it.
The Mackenzie men barked a laugh, false bravado ringing. “Walk away.”
But the man smiled, faint and dangerous, and Marian swore her knees nearly buckled even with their hands on her.
“I would,” he said. “But it seems the lady’s got a different wish.”
Before they could answer, he moved.
It was a storm contained in muscle and precision, unleashed in a flurry of motion that seemed both brutal and impossibly elegant.
His hand struck one man’s wrist with such force the blade went clattering to the ground, steel ringing against the cobbles.
In the same breath his elbow drove backward into another chest, the thud of impact carrying through the air as the man folded with a grunt.
He pivoted cleanly, never stumbling or flailing. Each movement belonged exactly where it landed, as if he had measured the space before stepping into it, as if every strike had already been written in his body.
Marian wrenched herself sideways in the chaos, her chest heaving, eyes wide.
She could hardly breathe. He did not fight like a brute swinging wild blows, but like something sharper, closer to a dancer who had trained his body to obey a rhythm no one else could hear.
His strikes were deliberate, his footing flawless, his strength reined tight until the moment it was loosed in sudden violence.
It was not brawl but craft, and the men who had seized her looked clumsy beside it.
Her heart lurched in her chest. God help her, it was like being sixteen again. This was a man who looked as though the Highlands themselves had shaped him from heather and stone, strong and wild. Terrible in his force, beautiful in the control with which he wielded it.
Her breath shook loose from her, trembling, her body half-torn between fear and awe. Who was he?
The Mackenzies reeled but did not retreat. Ivor snarled, drawing a blade, and the sight tore Marian’s chest in two. If he killed—
But the stranger only tilted his head, calm as the sea before a storm.
“I’d hate tae see blood ruin the fair,” he said, voice almost regretful. “Best walk away before it comes tae that.”
The crowd murmured, shifting back, but the Mackenzies spat curses and surged again. Steel flashed. Marian cried out.
The fight broke like thunder. Blades rang, fists cracked. The stranger ducked, twisted, struck with the hilt of his weapon, each move so swift Marian’s eyes could scarcely follow. He fought not only to win but to protect, placing himself always between her and their blades.
Her chest ached with something she had no name for. Terror, yes. But threaded through it, a heat that spread low and fierce. Who was this man, who could stand against Wallace’s hounds as if they were nothing?
The cry of a voice split the din. “Evander!”
More men appeared at the lane’s mouth, warriors moving fast, swords drawn. They bore themselves with the same quiet strength, and at once Marian saw they were his allies.
“Evander, ye daft bastard,” one of them called, breathless but grinning. “Always pickin’ fights ye’ve nae need tae.”
His name was Evander. It struck through her like a mark branded on her heart. He did not look at his men, only kept his stance before her, blade flashing once more.
“About time,” he muttered, though Marian caught the ghost of a smile tugging his mouth.
The reinforcements surged in, steel against steel, and in moments the tide turned. Ivor cursed, backing toward the crowd, blood streaking his sleeve.
“This is nae finished,” he spat, dark eyes locking on Marian. “Ye’ll pay fer this.”
Then he and his men fled, swallowed by the press of onlookers.
The silence that followed rang louder than their footsteps. Marian’s chest heaved, her hair wild round her face, wrists bruised from their grip. She stared at Evander as though he were a vision, some apparition conjured by desperation.
Sweet mercy, he was—
She dragged her gaze away, cheeks burning.
Nay, foolish girl.
She had only just escaped one prison, she would not leap willingly into another. And yet, her heart would not still. It beat wild, alive, with the image of him standing above her, calm in the storm.
Alive.
That was the word. She felt alive.
“Ye all right, lass?”
The voice came low, edged with the easy confidence of a man who had never learned to be afraid.
She turned her head, forcing herself to meet his gaze.
His hazel eyes held hers with a steady boldness, the kind that made it difficult to breathe, as though he could see more of her than she meant to show.
“Aye,” she managed, though her throat still rasped from screaming. “I will be.”
He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the truth of her words. Then he nodded once, decisive. “Good. Because nay woman should be taken anywhere without wantin’ tae go.”
The words struck through her chest sharper than she expected. Simple and plain, and yet no man had ever said such a thing to her. She had been bartered since childhood. To hear him speak it as if it were the most obvious truth in the world nearly broke her.
She swallowed, struggling to recover her composure. “Thank ye. Truly. I dinnae ken what might’ve—”
“Best nae think o’ it.” His tone was easy, kind, though his body still thrummed with the fight he had just given. “I’m Evander.”
She hesitated. Her name felt heavy on her tongue, weighted with danger. One slip, and all Seoc’s care would be lost. She forced herself to smile, though her palms sweated.
“Marian,” she said at last, the word falling before she could stop it. Her pulse jumped, panic sparking in her chest. What had she done? Quickly, she forced a smile, her palms damp. “Marian… Fraser.”
If he noticed the pause, he gave no sign. He only dipped his head, the golden fall of his hair catching the sunlight again. “A pleasure, Marian Fraser.”
Her stomach flipped at the sound of it on his tongue.
Foolish girl.
He looked at her, not with the hungry arrogance she had come to dread in Wallace and his hounds, but with a gaze that carried weight of a different kind. It lingered, steady, as though he were trying to understand her. “After the fray ye just found yerself in, I’d say ye could dae with a drink.”
Her brows lifted. “A drink?”
“Aye. Ale. Mead. Whatever warms ye. Helps the hands stop shakin’, in me experience.”