Chapter 1
The owner of the voice was the tallest, broadest, most fearsome man she had ever seen.
Claire looked into a pair of ice-blue eyes that were set in a hard, angular, but very handsome face, over which there was a mass of thick, wavy black hair.
However, she had no time to admire him, even if she had felt inclined to do so.
Now was the time to fight for her freedom.
She was afraid, yes, but above her fear was a bitter hatred and searing rage.
“I am not a commodity to be bought and sold,” she yelled. “You cannot treat me like a thing, an object! I am a human being and I will not be your slave!”
Her father grabbed Claire’s arm and turned her to face him. His eyes were blazing with fury. “You are whatever I say you are,” he said, his voice low, but throbbing with rage. “You will go and do a decent day’s work instead of sitting around the house all day with your nose buried in a book.”
“At least I do not spend my time drinking and gambling,” Claire retorted, all fear gone.
A moment later, however, she cowered back as her father let out a roar and raised his arm to strike her, but the blow never landed. The tall stranger’s big hand shot out and grabbed James Tewsbury’s wrist in a punishing grip.
Claire’s father yelped and turned around to face the stranger, who said nothing, but glared at him so fiercely that he cringed backwards, trying fruitlessly to escape the big man’s grasp.
There was a split second when Claire could have made a dash for freedom, but when she saw the man’s sheer strength, she decided against it.
There was no chance of escape, but it gratified her to see how he had rendered her father helpless, a whimpering, pathetic creature who was trapped in his captor’s grip.
Claire watched as the man slowly let go of her father’s arm, and for a moment, she thought James Tewsbury was going to run away. However, she knew him to be far too greedy; he would go nowhere unless he was paid.
As soon as he was free, Tewsbury screwed up his face in pain and began to rub his wrist to ease the agony.
Claire smiled in satisfaction, then caught the stranger’s eye as he flicked a glance at her.
To her surprise, he looked concerned, but as he turned to her father again, she decided that she must be imagining things.
It was obvious that this man had no tenderness in his heart at all.
“C-can you pay me now?” Claire’s father asked, still rubbing his pained flesh.
Claire saw tears of anguish in his eyes and was filled with dark glee. She had loved her father once, but this ruined creature in front of her was no longer her father, and she hated him with every fibre of her being.
“How much do you want?” the stranger asked.
James Tewsbury named the sum, which Claire was sure was more than double what the fat man had asked him to pay, but she said nothing, and the stranger took a few gold sovereigns from a leather pouch. He counted them out on the bar top and looked at Claire’s father.
“Thank you,” he said.
James Tewsbury’s eyes were still shining, but this time it was with greed, and he smiled with unholy satisfaction as he swept the coins from the counter with one hand and stuffed them into his pocket. He tossed a careless glance at his daughter.
“Goodbye, Claire,” he said, before he went to order more ale.
She looked after him, shocked by his utter indifference, but the tall stranger grasped her arm and began to lead her away. His hold was firm, but not brutal, like the grip he had used on her father.
As the big man turned her towards the door, Claire caught sight of her books—or what was left of them—lying on the floor, and panicked.
“My books,” she cried. “I cannot leave without them. Please let me fetch them!” She looked up imploringly into his blue eyes, but they were as cold as the North Sea on a winter day.
He shook his head. “They are ruined,” he said. “Useless.”
“Books are never useless.”
Claire turned around to try to salvage her precious volumes, but found that the hand holding her arm had tightened its grasp, and she could not move despite her valiant struggling.
“These ones are,” the man replied in his deep, rich voice. “They have been ground into the floor, and you cannot save them.”
Seeing the truth of his words, Claire looked over at her father again. He was grinning at her wickedly, as if glorying in her loss, and as she stared at him, Claire sighed and her shoulders slumped in defeat.
She had known that her circumstances would be wretched, but she had not contemplated anything as bad as this. She nodded in resignation then turned and allowed herself to be led away, realising that there was nothing she could do to save herself.
Outside, the rain had lessened somewhat, although a strong breeze drove it into their faces, and Claire pulled up the hood of her cloak, knowing that she was going to be drenched.
The stranger led her to a massive black stallion that was tied to a post outside.
Despite his fearsome appearance, the horse was docile as a lamb when the man approached it and stroked its nose, then talked to it softly for a few moments.
The horse whickered as if in answer, tossed his head and mussed the man’s hair with his chin, whereupon the stranger laughed and patted his neck, then produced an apple from his pocket and gave it to the animal. The stallion seized it from his hand and crunched it to oblivion in seconds.
Claire was astonished; it seemed that the big, fearsome man had a tender heart after all. He clearly loved his horse, and the feeling was mutual. However, when he turned back to her, it was obvious that the gentleness did not extend to humans.
He was looking at her with a deep frown, then he untied the stallion from its hitching post and came towards Claire with his hands extended and a deeply purposeful look on his face.
With a little squeal, Claire backed away, terrified, but found herself colliding with the wall of the tavern. She was trapped, and the big stranger once more grasped her arm and led her towards the stallion.
“He looks fierce,” he said, “but he is very gentle unless you startle him.”
Then, before she knew it, Claire found herself being hoisted onto the stallion, held by the stranger’s big hands, which completely encircled her tiny waist. She gave a little startled squeal, grabbing his shoulders, and then she was on the saddle.
Riding had always scared her, and she had not sat on a horse since she was twelve years old. That was when she had fallen from the pony on which she was seated when the little horse was suddenly startled by a rabbit and had reared up and thrown her onto the ground.
Now it seemed she had no choice but to stay where she was and wait for whatever was coming next. Presently the stranger mounted the horse, sitting behind her in the saddle with his chest pressed to her back.
His arms went around her so that he could hold the reins in front of her, and for the moment Claire felt secure and unafraid—a strange feeling in her situation. She was safe on the horse at least, although she had no idea what would happen to her after that.
She looked down at the hands that were keeping them steady.
They were big and strong, with prominent knuckles and the white marks of scars here and there, and she could see that the grooves on his fingertips were dirty.
They certainly did not look like the hands of a man who sat in a chair and played cards or drank all day, like the smooth-skinned white ones of her father.
Yet, he spoke like a man of refinement, and his clothes were of much better quality than those of the people who lived in the village. Was he a nobleman? A rich merchant? No, with hands like those he had to be a working man of some description.
What a mass of contradictions he was! She had to find out more about him, and decided to start with simple, innocent questions.
“What is your horse’s name?” she asked.
“Sable,” he answered. His voice was heavy and toneless, and he did not elaborate, merely leaving the word hanging in the air.
Claire was silent for a moment, then she said, “What a lovely name.”
She had expected a “thank you” or some other kind of acknowledgement, but got none. There was nothing but a heavy silence as she tried to think of something else to ask him.
Finally, she asked, “Where are we going?”
“Home.”
Again the word was a flat monosyllable, and Claire had to force down her irritation.
“Where is home?” she asked evenly.
He sighed, but made no answer. Claire tried one last time. “My name is Claire Tewsbury,” she said as calmly as she could. “Can you tell me yours?”
“Iain Ross,” he replied.
She turned her head to look him in the eye, but he avoided her gaze and urged Sable into a trot.
Claire dropped her hands to the saddle pommel and held on to it tightly. They were not moving fast, but the up-and-down motion was deeply unsettling to her. To distract herself, she looked around her, and was surprised to notice that the rain had stopped.
She had been so wrapped up in her problems that she had hardly noticed the weather.
Now a weak sun had come out, illuminating the wild scenery around her.
It was the end of August, and autumn was just around the corner.
In Rose’s letters, she had mentioned the heather that covered the hillsides, but Claire had never imagined anything so beautiful.
The bushes covered the rugged slopes of the hillside with a pinkish-purple haze that blazed in the sunlight.
Here and there great grey boulders protruded from the ground, and stands of dark green pine trees stood like sentinels watching over the sheep that grazed on the bright-green grass.
Grey dry-stone walls, crafted by the labour of many men, ran along the edges of fields, snaking up and down hills as if they had been drawn with chalk.
In the distance there were majestic mountains whose summits faded into the clouds, and Claire could only wonder how high they were. Everything in this country was wild, untamed, completely untouched by civilization, and she loved it.
Claire asked Iain who owned the land and the sheep, but received no answer, and she made up her mind that despite being extremely handsome, he was one of the rudest, most despicable men she had ever met. That realisation brought on a rush of fear as she wondered why he had bought her.
Am I going to be his slave? she thought.
She had read enough books to be familiar with the concept of men who bought women merely for sexual gratification.
Now she felt Sable slowing to a walk again, and one of Iain’s arms moved as he placed a hand on her waist, and she gasped in fright. What was he going to do?
As it happened, Claire had nothing to worry about; they were approaching a stony, slippery part of the path, and he was steadying them so that they could pick their way carefully across it.
After they had passed over it, a steep hill rose in front of them and Iain tightened his grip on her; she was glad of the extra support, since the slope was sheer and Claire had no head for heights.
For a moment, she closed her eyes, but when she opened them again, she gasped with astonishment. Across a wide valley through which a narrow stream ran, she saw the shape of a building that sprawled over the summit of a low hill.
It was one of the biggest and ugliest structures she had ever seen, and was bristling with fortifications.
Its purpose was all too clear; it was a fortress that had stamped its authority on the land all around it.
Claire had read about such places in her Gothic novels, but had never believed them to be real.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“Glengar Castle,” he replied, in the same flat tone he had used before.
They rode down the hill, crossed the stream and ascended to the castle by means of a cobbled road.
As they approached the portcullis, Claire was astonished to see that it was opened for them without question, and the guards saluted Iain Ross without checking his identity.
Clearly he was a person of some importance, she thought.
He swung down from his horse when they reached the courtyard, and reached up to help Claire to dismount.
As her feet touched the ground, she looked up at him and found his ice-blue eyes staring intensely into her honey-brown ones.
His hands were still around her waist, and lingered there for a split second before he turned away, letting her go.
He handed Sable’s reins to a stable hand, who gave a slight but deferential bow before leading the horse away to the stables.
Claire followed him into the castle, wondering fearfully what was going to happen next. Whenever they passed any of the servants, they bowed to him, and his air of authority was obvious as he strode past them.
Presently, they came to a young redheaded woman who was carrying a broom in her hand. Like everyone else, she bowed.
“M’Laird,” she said respectfully.
“Lorna,” Iain said to her, “this is Claire, the newest maid. Find her a room and give her something to eat.”
Claire suddenly realised who this man was.
She knew from her sister’s letters that a Laird was a very powerful landowner.
In fact, Rose had married Laird Cormac MacTavish and had the title of Lady MacTavish.
She had never met Rose’s husband, but from her description, he was similar to this man, since they were both powerfully built and handsome.
She wondered if all Scottish Lairds looked like them!