Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
"Faster, ye great daft beast. Faster!"
The road beneath Maighread's horse was muddy, each hoof strike splattering cold muck against her skirts.
Rain had been pouring down since dawn, soaking through her woolen cloak until the fabric clung heavy on her shoulders.
She hunched forward, urging her mount onward.
Every beat of her heart hammered the same rhythm.
The guards accompanying her were also hunched over their horses, one in front of her, one behind.
Faither's dying, Faither's dying, Faither's dying.
Three days since the messenger had found her at her cousin's holding in the Lowlands.
Three days of hard riding north, and still the MacEwan lands felt impossibly distant.
Her thighs burned from gripping the saddle after hours of brutal pace, and her gut twisted with a sickness that had naught to do with the journey.
The Council would be circling already. Those scheming vultures. She could picture them gathering in her father's hall, whispering poison while Angus MacEwan lay fevered and helpless. And Keir Sinclair was bound to make a move soon, as soon as he found out there was something wrong with him.
Her horse stumbled, nearly pitching her forward. Maighread swore viciously, hauling on the reins. "Steady now. Steady."
The forest pressed close on either side of the road, ancient pines crowding together until their branches blocked what little grey light filtered through the clouds. This stretch always made her uneasy. Too quiet. Too many places for trouble to hide.
A branch cracked somewhere to her left.
Maighread's hand went to the dirk at her belt, fingers closing instinctively around the leather-wrapped hilt, despite the protection of the men travelling with her. She wasn't foolish enough to travel unarmed, not with winter coming and desperate men prowling every road between there and salvation.
All of a sudden, the forest came alive.
They burst from the trees like wolves.
Five men, maybe six. Rough looking curs in stained leathers, faces hidden behind scraps of cloth. Her horse screamed and reared. Maighread clung to its mane, legs locked around its barrel as it bucked and spun.
Both her guards were targeted immediately, one’s throat slit before he could fully reach his sword, the other pushed off his horse and trampled.
"Get her down!" one of the attackers roared. "Alive, ye hear me? Alive!"
Alive. Not just bandits then. Bandits wanted quick coin and a quicker escape. These men wanted her specifically. They had been watching and had quickly made rid of her guards.
Her heart kicked into a gallop. She yanked her dirk free and slashed at the closest man as he grabbed for her bridle. The blade caught him across the knuckles. He howled and jerked back, blood spraying.
"Sinclair's balls!" he snarled. "The bitch cut me!"
"Should've brought more men," another growled, circling around her left side. Bile rose in her throat.
"Who sent ye?" She kept her horse spinning, kept them all in sight. Her voice came out steady despite the terror clawing up her spine. "Name yer master, ye cowardly monsters!"
The leader laughed, a wet ugly sound. "Ye'll ken soon enough, lass. Now stop making this difficult."
"Difficult?" She bared her teeth at him. "I haven't even started being difficult."
She kicked her horse hard. The beast lunged forward, scattering two of the men. Maighread leaned low over its neck and drove her heels in again, sending it plunging down the muddy track. Branches whipped past her face. Rain stung her eyes. Behind her, boots pounded and men shouted.
"After her! Move yer arses!"
The road curved sharply ahead. Maighread took the turn too fast, felt her horse's hooves slide in the muck. They stayed upright by sheer luck and God's mercy. She risked a glance back.
They were gaining.
Of course they were. Her mount had been ridden hard for three days straight while these bastards' horses were fresh.
Mathematics and misery. The border of MacEwan lands lay barely a day's ride ahead––so close––but she wouldn't reach it.
Wouldn't even make it another mile at this pace.
She had to get off the road. Lose them in the forest, where their numbers mattered less.
Maighread hauled on the reins, turning her horse toward a gap in the trees. The animal balked, ears flattening.
"Go!" She kicked viciously. "By the Mass, move!"
They crashed into the undergrowth. Branches tore at her cloak and hair. Something ripped the braid half loose, sending chestnut strands whipping across her face. Her horse stumbled over roots and rocks, breath coming in great heaving gasps.
"She's gone into the woods!"
"Split up! Fin, take Dougal and circle round. We'll flush her out!"
Maighread's mind raced. Five men, possibly six. If they split their forces, that improved her odds marginally.
She pushed deeper into the forest, guiding her exhausted horse between close growing trunks. The rain had softened, filtering through the canopy in a steady drip. Everything smelled of wet earth and pine sap and her own fear sweat.
A stream cut across her path, water running swift and dark over smooth stones. She urged her horse into it, then turned upstream. Old trick, older than memory, but it might buy her minutes. Might give her time to think, to plan, to figure out how in God's name she'd survive that moment.
Hoofbeats.
Coming fast from her right.
Her stomach dropped. They'd circled quicker than expected. Professional then. Trained men, not common thieves.
She abandoned the stream, driving her horse up the far bank. The animal's sides heaved. Foam flecked its neck. It couldn't take much more.
Neither could she, if truth be told. Her arms shook from gripping the reins. Her throat burned. But fear had teeth and they were sinking deep, flooding her blood with something that felt sickeningly close to panic.
"There!" A shout, too close. "By the stream, I see her!"
Maighread twisted in the saddle. Two men crashed through the brush behind her. She turned forward again, ducked under a low hanging branch, and nearly collided with the third man blocking her path.
"Gotcha, ye troublesome quine."
He grabbed for her bridle. Maighread slashed at him with her dirk, but he caught her wrist and squeezed until her bones ground together. The blade fell from her nerveless fingers.
"Get off!" She kicked at his face. Her boot connected with something that crunched. He staggered back, cursing foully.
Her horse reared again. This time Maighread's exhausted grip failed. She tumbled backward, hit the ground hard enough to drive the air from her lungs. Mud splattered her face. For a horrible moment she couldn't breathe, couldn't move, could only lie there gasping like a landed fish.
Boots appeared in her vision.
"That was foolish, lass." The leader's voice, rough with exertion. "We're trying not to hurt ye, but ye keep making things complicated and soon—"
Steel sang.
A blade appeared in the man's throat, erupting through the front of his neck in a spray of crimson. His eyes went wide. He made a wet gurgling sound and collapsed.
More swords, more shouting. The other men scattered, reaching for their weapons. Maighread rolled onto her side, still trying to drag air into her starved lungs.
New riders poured into the clearing. Six of them, maybe seven, all wearing colors that made her blood turn to ice.
Sinclair green and black.
The colors she'd learned to recognize from across any hall, any field. The colors that appeared in her nightmares, paired with Keir's cold smile and colder eyes.
"Stand down!" A voice cut through the chaos, commanding and cold. "Lady MacEwan is under Sinclair protection!"
Maighread's blood turned to ice. She knew that voice.
Keir Sinclair himself sat astride a black destrier at the edge of the clearing, sword drawn, his dark hair slick with rain. He looked exactly as she remembered—sharp features, grey eyes that missed nothing, handsome in a cold, calculated way that made her skin crawl.
Protection. The word hit her gut like a fist.
This was it. The trap. These weren't bandits at all. This whole thing had been orchestrated. The attack, the chase, the convenient rescue. Keir arriving at precisely the right moment to play hero while pretending she was a grateful, helpless maiden.
Except she was neither grateful nor helpless, and she'd be damned before she let them drag her back like a prize heifer.
Maighread shoved to her feet. Her legs trembled but held. Keir guided his horse closer, his gaze fixed on her.
"Lady MacEwan." His voice gentled, taking on a tone of concern that didn't reach his eyes. "We've been searching fer ye. Yer faither needs ye home. Please, let us escort ye safely back where ye belong."
"Stay back." She stumbled away from him, scanning the ground for her dirk. Where had it fallen? There, half buried in mud and pine needles.
Keir dismounted, approaching with his hands raised like she was a spooked animal. "Me lady, ye're injured. Let us help ye. We'll take ye tae safety, get ye warm and fed and—"
"I said stay back!" She snatched up her dirk and whirled to face them. Six men against one exhausted woman. Shite odds. But she'd cut the first bastard who tried to touch her.
The remaining attackers took one look at Keir and his armed men and bolted. They scattered into the forest like rats, crashing through the undergrowth in their haste to escape. Within moments, the clearing fell quiet except for the sound of rain and her own ragged breathing.
"Lady MacEwan, please." Keir took another step closer. Blood streaked his face but his expression stayed gentle, concerned. "Ye're safe now. We'll take ye home tae yer faither safely."
Her mind raced through the possibilities.
Keir had arranged the attack. Paid men to play bandits, sent his own soldiers to "save" her.
Now she'd owe him a life debt. Now the Council could argue she needed a strong husband for protection.
Now Keir could press his suit with the full weight of clan obligation behind him.
Clever bastard.
Maighread didn't wait to hear more. She turned and ran.