Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Iona Nunnery, western coast of Scotland
“Please, I must speak with the Mother Superior. ‘Tis a matter of urgency.”
The words tore from Isolda’s throat raw and desperate, her voice nearly lost beneath the howl of wind battering the nunnery’s stone walls.
Rain lashed through the open doorway behind her, soaking the hem of her cloak and pooling on the ancient flagstones worn smooth by centuries of faithful feet.
The young novice who’d answered her frantic pounding stared at her with wide, uncertain eyes.
“Me lady, the Maither Superior has already retired—”
“Please.” Isolda forced the word through numb lips, fighting to keep her voice steady. “I wouldnae ask if it werenae urgent. ‘Tis a matter of life and death.”
Aye. Me life.
Something in her expression must have convinced the girl, because the novice’s expression shifted from hesitation to concern. She nodded once, sharply, and gestured for Isolda to follow.
The corridor stretched dark and cold, lit only by flickering lights that threw dancing shadows across the bare stone.
Isolda’s boots squelched with each step, leaving wet tracks in her wake.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, each breath a drum counting down the seconds until her father’s men realized where she’d gone.
Let them find me already sworn… let this work…
The novice stopped before a heavy wooden door bound with iron and knocked softly. “Maither? Forgive the intrusion, but there’s a lady here who insists she must speak with ye immediately.”
A pause. Then a voice, calm and measured. “Enter.”
The door swung inward to reveal a small chamber made smaller by the shadows pressing in from every corner.
A single candle burned on a desk cluttered with correspondence and ledgers.
Behind it sat an elderly woman, her face wrinkled but serene beneath a wimple of undyed linen.
She studied Isolda with the kind of penetrating gaze that seemed to see straight through skin and bone.
“Leave us, sister Margaret.”
The novice curtsied and withdrew, pulling the door closed with a soft thud that felt horribly final.
Isolda stood dripping on the rushes, suddenly aware of how she must look—her dark hair plastered to her skull in lank strands, cloak soaking, mud splattered halfway up her skirts.
She’d ridden hard until her poor mare was foam-flecked and trembling.
At barely over five feet, her slender frame was exhausted from days of riding and the short boat ride to the nunnery.
When she raised a shaking hand to push a wet strand of dark hair from her face, she caught a glimpse of her gray-green eyes reflected in the window’s dark glass—wide as a deer’s.
She looked small, bedraggled, and half-drowned.
“I’m Lady Isolda MacGregor,” she said, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat. “Daughter of Laird Malcolm MacGregor. I’ve come tae—”
“I ken who ye are, child.” The Mother Superior’s expression didn’t change. “Yer letters have been received and read.”
Hope flared bright and hot in Isolda’s chest. “I ken ‘tis unusual tae request immediate vows, but I must take them. Taenight.” She stepped forward, her sodden skirts clinging to her legs. “I’ve been writin’ tae ye these past weeks, beggin’ fer sanctuary.
When I heard rumors of the Pact, I feared me faither might…
Well, as I never heard back from ye, I came meself.
Please. I cannae go back. If I dae, he’ll force me intae marriage.
He daesnae care about me. About what I want. He’s never cared.”
The words came measured despite the fear clawing at her chest, years of being overlooked teaching her to mask her desperation.
The Mother Superior folded her hands atop the desk, the gesture somehow more ominous than comforting. “Sit down, child.”
“With all due respect, I dinnae need tae sit. I need ye tae accept me. Please.” Her voice cracked. “This is me last chance tae choose me own life. Once I’m sworn tae the Church, nay one can claim me. I’ll finally be free.”
“Sit. Down.”
The command carried enough weight that Isolda found herself sinking into the small wooden stool opposite the desk, her legs suddenly numb. Water trickled down her cloak while outside, thunder rumbled low and threatening—as if the very heavens mourned for her.
The Mother Superior studied her for a moment, and in that silence, Isolda felt the first cold fingers of dread wrap around her heart.
“The matter has been decided,” the older woman said quietly.
“Naethin’ has been decided. I havenae consented tae anythin’.”
“Och, yer consent was never required, dear child. Yer family entered intae a bindin’ agreement with The Laird’s Pact.
When yer faither learned of yer plans—dinnae look so surprised child—he sent word immediately.
The agreement was signed and sealed a fortnight ago.
That path was closed tae ye before ye ever left yer faither’s hall. ”
The room tilted. Isolda gripped the edges of the stool, her knuckles going white. “Nay… they cannae… he has nay right—”
“Ye are the daughter of a laird, and yer faither has full right tae pledge ye in marriage tae secure peace between the Highland clans and the Norse jarls of the western Isles.” The Mother Superior’s eyes held genuine sympathy, which somehow made it worse.
“But surely ye cannae just deny me—”
“The Church is aware of the Pact and supports it. King Alexander himself decreed these unions—tae refuse would be treason. Ye might be of mind tae dae so, but the Church will nae act against the Crown.”
I was trapped before I’d even begun…
Isolda’s hands lay still in her lap, though her nails bit into her palms. She swallowed the panic down.
“Then I’ll leave. Try tae find refuge somewhere else. Can ye please wait before informin’—”
The Mother Superior’s expression shifted—not quite pity, but something close to it. “Yer betrothed has already arrived at Iona. He came tae take custody of ye. Yer faither must have figured out yer plans or read yer letters and he took… care of everything.”
Already here?
Isolda shot to her feet, the stool scraping loudly against the stone floor. “Nay. I will nae…ye cannae expect me tae simply—”
A knock at the door cut her off and the sound echoed through the small chamber.
“‘Tis time, child,” the elderly woman said as she rose to her feet.
“Who?” the word came out sharp. “Who has he promised me tae, Maither Superior?”
The door swung open and heavy footsteps crossed the threshold, bringing with them the scent of leather and rain.
Isolda remained frozen, her back to the door. Her heart raced, but she felt numb, as though she were watching it happen to someone else. She forced herself to turn slowly, forced her eyes to lift despite every instinct screaming at her to run.
And then she saw him.
The man was large—broad shouldered and tall, filling the doorway with a presence that threatened to suck all the air out of the tiny chamber.
Perhaps thirty summers, maybe less—far younger than she’d expected for a man with his reputation.
At one-and-twenty, she’d always imagined she’d be given to some grizzled warrior twice her father’s age.
He had dark blonde hair that had been cropped short—shorter than most Highlanders. He had angular features, high cheekbones and a strong jaw with steady blue eyes that studied her with an intensity she couldn’t name.
Och… he’s braw…
The observation rose unbidden and unwelcome. This wasn’t the scarred brute she’d imagined. Not the monster she’d thought, but just a man with a face that held none of the cruelty she’d prepared herself for.
And somehow, that just made everything worse.
“Lady Isolda MacGregor,” The Mother Superior said, her voice seeming to come from very far away. “This is Ragnar Ketilsson, Jarl of Uist.”
The Stag.
She knew that name. Everyone in the Highlands knew that name. He was one of the five Viking warlords who’d carved kingdoms from Scottish soil with blood and steel. A man whose reputation for ruthlessness had made mothers use his name to frighten their children into obedience.
And she was meant to marry him.
Isolda stood paralyzed, caught between the numbness of shock and the cold certainty settling like ice in her chest. Her last hope had died the moment that door had opened. Her future—the one she’d tried so desperately to claim as her own—had just been ripped away forever.
She met Ragnar Ketilsson’s steady blue gaze, and felt nothing but the terrible, hollow ache of defeat.
His voice, when it came, was low and certain. “Lady MacGregor. I’ve come tae take ye tae Uist.”