Chapter 2
two
. . .
Lachlan
I've conquered seven kingdoms before this one.
Seven victories, each harder won than the last. None of them gave me pause.
None of them made me question my purpose or my path.
Until her. Until I locked eyes with Princess Fiona MacLeod across that great hall, her golden hair wild around her face, her green eyes burning with a hatred so pure it was almost beautiful.
I expected resistance. I expected fear. What I didn't expect was this gnawing hunger that has nothing to do with power and everything to do with possessing her completely.
"The eastern tower still needs securing, my lord." Callum, my most trusted general, stands at my shoulder as I stare out over the kingdom I've just claimed. The sun is setting, painting the stone walls with gold and fire. Fitting, when I consider what comes next.
"See to it," I say, not bothering to look at him. My thoughts are elsewhere—on the princess who will soon be my wife. My queen, though she doesn't yet know what that truly means.
"And the king?" Callum asks, his voice careful. "He's demanding to see his daughter before the ceremony."
I turn to him now, allowing a cold smile to touch my lips. "Former king," I correct. "And no. The princess remains isolated until the wedding. I want no last-minute schemes or attempts at escape."
Callum nods, knowing better than to argue.
We've been through too much together, he and I.
He was there when I was nothing but a second son with more ambition than prospects, when my brother's death thrust me into a position of power I was never meant to have.
He's watched me build this empire one bloody battle at a time.
"There's something different about this one," he observes quietly, eyes on the horizon rather than on me. "About her."
I don't pretend to misunderstand. "She's a political necessity. Nothing more."
"Of course." He doesn't believe me. I barely believe myself.
When I'd planned this conquest, the princess was merely a detail in a larger strategy.
The MacLeod kingdom has rich farmland, a key port, and borders that, when combined with my own territories, would create an empire unassailable from the north or west. The marriage was simply the cleanest way to legitimize my claim, to prevent costly uprisings and rebellions that would drain resources I need for the campaigns to come.
I never expected her to affect me. Women never do, not beyond the basic satisfaction of physical release.
I've taken countless lovers over the years, but none have claimed even a sliver of my attention beyond the bedchamber.
Power has always been my true mistress—the expansion of my borders, the growth of my influence, the reputation that makes kings tremble when they hear my name.
Yet something about Fiona MacLeod has burrowed under my skin like a splinter.
Perhaps it's the defiance in her posture, the pride that wouldn't let her cower even when surrounded by my warriors.
Or maybe it's the flash of intelligence behind her fear, the calculation I recognized in her gaze.
This is no simpering court flower, no pampered royal who knows nothing of the world's hardships.
"Have the chamber prepared," I tell Callum, already striding away. "I want to see her before the ceremony. Alone."
"Is that wise?" he calls after me, a liberty only he would dare.
I don't answer. Wisdom has little to do with the hunger pulsing through me.
The castle corridors are dimly lit, torches casting long shadows against stone walls that have stood for centuries.
My boots echo on the flagstones, announcing my approach to the guards stationed outside the princess's chamber.
They snap to attention when they see me, fear evident in their rigid postures.
"Leave us," I command.
"But my lord, the princess is—"
"I said leave." My voice drops lower, a warning that needs no elaboration.
They flee.
I pause outside her door, listening. Silence. Then a soft sound—a hitched breath, quickly stifled. Is she crying? The thought should please me. Instead, it irritates me, like sand caught in my armor.
I push the door open without knocking.
She stands at the window, her back to me, her body outlined by dying sunlight. For a moment, I simply look at her—the proud line of her spine, the way her hair falls in tangled waves down her back, the slight tremble in her shoulders that she's fighting to control.
"I didn't give you permission to enter." Her voice is surprisingly steady.
"I don't require your permission." I close the door behind me. "This is my castle now. My kingdom."
"How convenient for you." She doesn't turn to face me. "To take with bloodshed what you could never earn through merit."
A laugh escapes me, genuine amusement mixed with grudging respect for her boldness. "You know nothing of what I've earned, Princess."
"I know enough." Now she turns, and the sight of her hits me like a physical blow.
Her face is flushed, her eyes bright with unshed tears she refuses to let fall.
Her dress—blue, the color of her family's crest—clings to curves that make my mouth go dry.
"I know you're a brutal conqueror who takes what he wants and leaves destruction in his wake. "
I move closer, watching her fight the urge to back away. She holds her ground, chin lifted, jaw clenched. "Is that what you think? That I destroy rather than build?"
"What else would you call this?" She gestures at the window, at the kingdom beyond. "You've brought my people to their knees."
"I've brought them security." I take another step toward her. "Your father's rule was failing. Your borders were vulnerable. It was only a matter of time before someone conquered you—if not me, then someone far less inclined to mercy."
"Mercy?" she scoffs. "Is that what you call forcing me into marriage?"
"Would you prefer I put your family to the sword? Execute your father? Sell you to the highest bidder among my generals?" I'm close enough now to see the pulse jumping in her throat, to smell the floral scent of her hair. "Make no mistake, Princess—there are far worse fates than becoming my wife."
She stares at me, searching my face for some crack in my resolve. "Why marriage? Why not simply claim the throne through conquest?"
It's the same question she asked in the great hall, but this time, without an audience, I can give her a more honest answer.
"Because I'm not just a conqueror. I'm a king.
" I reach out, unable to stop myself from touching her hair, from confirming that it's as soft as it looks.
She flinches but doesn't pull away. "A king needs a queen.
Your people will accept my rule more readily with you at my side, bearing my name, my children. "
Her eyes widen at that last word, color flooding her cheeks. "I will never bear your children," she whispers.
My hand slides from her hair to her throat, not squeezing, just resting against the rapid flutter of her pulse. "You will bear my name, my crest, and my heirs, Princess. The sooner you accept that reality, the easier your life will become."
I expect rage or tears. Instead, she laughs—a bitter, broken sound. "My life? What life will that be? A prisoner in my own home, forced to share a bed with the man who destroyed everything I love?"
"Not destroyed." I drop my hand, stepping back to give her space to breathe. "Transformed. United with something stronger. Your people will prosper under my rule. They'll have protection they never had before."
"At what cost?"
"You." I say it simply, honestly. "You are the price of their safety, Princess. A price I suspect you're willing to pay, despite your protests."
Something flickers in her gaze—a recognition of truth that she doesn't want to acknowledge. She's a ruler's daughter, raised to understand duty and sacrifice. She knows I'm right.
"And what of your price?" she asks, her voice barely audible. "What does this marriage cost you?"
The question catches me off guard. No one has asked what anything costs me in a very long time. The answer rises to my tongue unbidden: Everything. My freedom. My solitude. The simplicity of conquest without the complication of feeling.
But I swallow those words. They're a weakness I can't afford to show.
"Nothing I'm not willing to pay," I tell her instead. "Now prepare yourself. We wed in an hour."
I turn to leave, needing distance from her before I do something rash—like press her against the window and claim her mouth, claim her body, before the vows that will make her mine in name.
"Wait." Her voice stops me at the door. I look back to find her watching me, confusion warring with hatred in her eyes. "Tell me one thing, Lachlan Drummond. What do you really want from me? Not as a king. As a man."
The question pierces something in me, something I've kept armored for years. The answer burns in my chest, too raw and honest to voice.
I want your fire. I want your defiance. I want to be the one who breaks through that wall of hatred and makes you burn for me the way I'm already burning for you.
Instead, I say, "Everything, Princess. I want everything."
I leave then, before the hunger in me grows too strong to control.
In the corridor, I find Callum waiting, his expression carefully neutral. "The priest is ready when you are, my lord."
I nod, already distant, my thoughts still in that room with her. "Post extra guards. She'll try to escape."
"You're certain?"
"I would, in her position." The thought almost makes me smile. "She has spirit."
"Is that what we're calling it now?" Callum falls into step beside me as we head toward the great hall. "The men are talking. They say you look at her differently than you've looked at any conquest before."
"The men should mind their tongues before I cut them out." The words have no real heat. Callum knows me too well to fear empty threats.
"She's beautiful," he continues, undeterred. "But so were others. What makes this one different?"
I stop, facing him with an intensity that would make lesser men cower. "She's mine. That's the only difference that matters."
Callum studies me, then slowly nods. "As you say."
We continue in silence to the hall where my generals have gathered, along with the surviving nobility of the fallen kingdom. They watch me with a mixture of fear and resentment, these lords and ladies who just hours ago pledged fealty to a different king.
I take my place at the front of the room, beside the ancient stone that has witnessed centuries of MacLeod marriages. Soon, it will witness the union of our bloodlines, the absorption of their dynasty into mine.
My generals approach, one by one, to offer congratulations and barely concealed curiosity.
"Is she worth the trouble?" asks Murdoch, my oldest captain. "A conquered bride brings her own problems."
"She's worth it." The certainty in my voice surprises even me.
"Will she fight you?" Another general, grinning with crude suggestion.
I fix him with a stare that wipes the smile from his face. "She's to be your queen. Remember that, or I'll help you remember."
They retreat, chastened, as the doors open. The hall falls silent.
Fiona enters, escorted by her father. She's changed into a white gown, simple but elegant, her hair partly tamed into a braid interwoven with small white flowers. She looks like spring after a harsh winter—life returning to frozen ground.
Our eyes meet across the hall, and for a moment, everything else fades away. There's still hatred in her gaze, still defiance, but something else too. A dawning recognition that we're bound now, she and I, in ways neither of us fully understands.
This wasn't supposed to happen. She was meant to be a conquest, a strategic acquisition. Not this ache in my chest, this need that goes beyond power or politics.
As she walks toward me, head high despite her circumstances, I realize a truth I've been fighting since I first saw her.
I haven't just claimed a kingdom today.
I've claimed my obsession.