Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
“Easy, lass,” Lady Alyson MacDonald murmured. “There’s naethin’ out there.”
Her mare’s ears flicked softly, picking up something on the wind as they travelled toward Iona Abbey—to stone walls and iron gates and a life where the world couldn’t touch her. Sanctuary. Safety.
The forest pressed close on either side of the narrow road, bare branches reaching overhead like skeletal fingers.
Frost clung to everything, turning the world into something crystalline and bitter.
Beautiful, if one didn’t look too closely.
Beautiful, if one ignored how easily frozen things could shatter.
Like me.
“Birds are restless,” Malcolm, one of her guards, said, his fingers tightening around his sword hilt.
“Aye,” Jamie agreed, his eyes scanning the tree line. “Even the carrion birds ken somethin’s comin’. Me grandfaither always used tae say that when the crows start gatherin’, ‘tis never tae sing ye a lullaby. Means they’re waitin’ fer their feast.”
“That’s the spirit, lad. Keep that optimism burnin’ bright.”
The other men chuckled under their breath at the jest, but Fergus fixed his gaze on Alyson.
Alyson’s fingers found the edge of her cloak, worrying the heavy wool between her thumb and forefinger. The familiar texture grounded her, kept her from drowning in memories that still had teeth.
Five months. It has been five months since Micheal pulled me from that cell. Five months later, and I still wake screamin’, still cannae bear tae have a man stand too close.
Even her brothers—especially her brothers, for they now treated her like something fragile. Their careful distance hurt worse than any wound Campbell had inflicted upon her.
“The abbey will nay doubt offer ye peace, me lady,” Fergus said quietly. “But ye ken what it means, aye? Once ye take those vows—”
“I ken what I’m daein’.” The words came out sharper than intended, and she gentled her tone, her fingers still working the cloak’s edge. “Fergive me, Fergus. I didnae mean tae snap. ‘Tis just… I’m nay longer the person who existed before Campbell. She’s gone. The Abbey will provide safety.”
Her words hung between them because they both knew the truth. Safety came at a price, and she was about to pay for it with the rest of her life.
“Malcom,” Fergus called to one of the younger guards. “How much further tae the crossin’?”
“Another hour, maybe less if we keep this pace.”
They were already well into MacLean territory, and now had to reach the crossing. From there, it was only half a day’s ride to Iona Abbey. Men like Cody Grant couldn’t reach her there with their obsession and their demands.
I’ll be safe behind those walls. Finally, finally safe.
Alyson’s mare tossed her head, nostrils flaring at something on the wind. She stroked the animal’s neck, feeling the nervous energy thrumming through warm muscle and hide. The animal’s coat was damp with sweat despite the cold—another creature who sensed danger before it showed itself.
Behind her, Malcolm’s horse sidled nervously, hooves striking the frozen earth with sharp, rhythmic cracks. Then Iain’s mount joined the restless dance, tossing its head hard enough to make the bit jangle.
Alyson’s gaze swept the tree line. Nothing was moving in the forest, no birds called—even the wind had gone silent, as if the world itself held its breath.
A branch snapped somewhere to the left—sharp as a bone breaking.
Fergus’s head whipped toward the sound, his hand dropping to his sword hilt. Across from him, Dougal did the same, his face going hard as stone.
Then, carried on the frozen air like a whisper, came the distant thunder of hoofbeats.
Fergus’s voice dropped. “I want ye tae stay calm now, me lady.” His one hand dropped to his sword hilt, while the other tightened on the reins with white-knuckled intensity, his body rigid. “But be ready, there’s someone followin’ us.”
Every muscle in Alyson’s body went rigid. Her heart hammered against her ribs hard enough to bruise.
Nay. Nae now. We’re so close…
“Could be naethin’.” Dougal’s hand waited patiently on his sword hilt, belying his words. “What d’ye reckon, Fergus?”
Fergus’s jaw tightened. “Malcolm, Iain—fall back. Eyes on the tree line. The rest of ye, close ranks.”
The warriors moved with silent efficiently, tightening their formation around her. “Blast it! ‘Tis colder than a witch’s—”, Jamie muttered, earning him a sharp look from Fergus that would have been comical in any other circumstance.
Alyson forced herself to breathe through her nose, to loosen her death grip on the cloak before she tore the fabric.
‘Tis probably naethin’… just travelers. Just—
But Fergus wouldn’t have given orders if it was nothing.
“How long have they been followin’ us?” she hated the tremor in her voice, hated the weakness it revealed.
“Hard tae say,” Dougal kept his gaze fixed on something behind them, something she couldn’t see. His jaw worked as he chewed the inside of his cheek—a nervous habit she’d noticed in him before every raid back at Keppoch. “Could’ve picked up our trail at first light. Maybe before even.”
“How many?”
“Cannae tell yet. They’re smart—keepin’ their distance, stayin’ just out of sight.”
Alyson’s mare began to sidestep, catching her rider’s fear like a contagion. She ran her hand along the animal’s neck in long, soothing strokes, even as panic clawed at her throat.
Breathe. Ye survived Campbell. Ye can survive this.
“Me lady,” Iain’s face had gone pale, making his freckles stand out like bloodstains on snow. “Can ye ride faster?”
Six pairs of eyes turned to her, waiting.
These men—barely more than boys, some of them—would die for her.
She knew their names, had gotten to know them well on this journey, though she wished she hadn’t.
Names made losses real. Names turned warriors into fathers and husbands and sons.
Names carved themselves into one’s memory like epitaphs waiting to be spoken.
The sight of them should have comforted her, but instead, it only reminded her of how many men had already died because of her and the knowledge sat like stones in her belly.
“Aye,” she said, straightening her spine. “I can ride as fast as needed.”
“Then we ride.” Fergus spurred his mount forward. “Now!”
They kicked their horses into a gallop. The sudden acceleration made Alyson’s stomach lurch, but her mare responded beautifully—powerful legs eating up the frozen ground, hooves thundering against packed earth.
The rhythmic pounding became their battle drum, declaring war against whoever dared pursue them.
Wind whipped at Alyson’s face, stinging her eyes, pulling strands of dark hair loose from beneath her hood.
Behind them, other hoofbeats answered. Growing louder. Growing closer.
“How many?” Fergus shouted over the pounding rhythm.
“At least a dozen!” Dougal’s voice carried back. “Maybe more!”
A dozen against six?
The arithmetic was simple, brutal. Even if her guards were the finest warriors in the Highlands—and they were good—those numbers spelled trouble.
The thunder of hoofbeats behind them had become a living thing—hungry, relentlessly closing the distance with every heartbeat. Alyson’s mare stumbled slightly on the frozen ground, then recovered, though it cost her fractions of a second—which could mean the difference between life and death.
Her ears pricked to the creak of leather as someone drew back a bowstring.
Fergus’s face had gone white, his knuckles bloodless on his reins. When his eyes met hers, she saw her own fear reflected there.
“Ride!!” His roar split the air. “RIDE!”
“The trees!” Malcolm pointed toward denser forest ahead. “If we can reach cover—”
An arrow whistled past Alyson’s head.
She felt the breathless whisper of its passage, felt death brushing against her skin like a lover’s caress. The arrow embedded itself in a tree trunk, shaft still quivering. The fletching was dyed red—Grant colors. A declaration of intent.
Then, the air filled with whispers—dozens of them as arrows flew towards them.
“Ride like the devil himself is at yer heels!” Fergus roared.
Alyson leaned low over her mare’s neck, making herself small, and gave the animal her lead. The mare surged forward with a burst of speed that blurred the world to streaks of grey and white and brown.
An arrow struck the ground inches from her mare’s hooves. The animal screamed—high and terrified—and veered sharply. Alyson clung to the saddle, her heart lodged somewhere in her throat, every muscle burning with effort.
Please let us reach the crossin’, please—
Wood splintered nearby—another arrow finding a tree. They were getting too close. Her mare’s sides heaved beneath her, muscles flexing with desperation.
“They’re flankin’ us!” Iain’s voice cracked. “Both sides!”
Fergus wheeled his horse around. For one terrible moment, his eyes met hers—full of apology, full of grief for what he had to do.
“Dougal, Iain, Liam—get Lady Alyson intae the forest! The rest, with me!”
“Fergus, nay!” But her cry was lost in the chaos as the group fractured. Three warriors surrounded her, urging their mounts toward the tree line while Fergus and the others wheeled back to face their pursuers.
They’re goin’ tae die because of me.
They rode through undergrowth, the mare heaving beneath her. Dougal led them, his broader mount clearing a path through bracken. Iain brought up the rear, constantly looking back. Liam stayed close to her left, his sword already drawn.
The thunder of pursuing hoofbeats grew louder again. Closer. Accompanied by shouts in rough Highland voices that made her skin crawl with fear.
“There!” Liam pointed toward a break in the trees. “If we can reach the ridge we—”
His words ended in a strangled gasp. An arrow sprouted from his shoulder like some obscene flower. He pitched forward, somehow staying mounted even as blood began to soak through his shirt.
“Keep goin’!” Liam’s face had gone grey, but his voice remained steady. “Dinnae stop fer—”
Warriors burst through the trees like demons conjured from nightmare. They came from both sides at once, horses crashing through undergrowth with terrifying speed. Alyson caught flashes of tartan bearing Grant colors, of grim faces and drawn weapons, before chaos descended.
They’ve come fer me!
She kicked her mare forward, desperate to break through. A massive hand shot out and seized her reins. Her mare reared, hooves flailing at empty air, and this time, Alyson couldn’t hold on.
The world tilted and she felt herself falling, felt that sickening moment of weightlessness, then hit frozen earth with enough force to drive the air from her lungs. Sharp pain exploded through her shoulder, her hip, radiating outward in waves that made her vision blur.
Get up. Get. Up. GET UP!
But her body wouldn’t obey. She lay there gasping—vision swimming, ears ringing with more than just the impact.
“Got her!” someone bellowed triumphantly.
Through the haze of pain, Alyson saw boots approaching—heavy, deliberate. A shadow fell across her, blocking out what little light filtered through the canopy.
Memories slashed at her. Horrible ones she’d fought so hard to escape.
Rough hands grabbed her arms, hauling her upright. Alyson thrashed weakly, but whoever held her was far stronger. The world slowly stopped spinning, but the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth—she must’ve bitten her tongue in the fall.
Dougal lay motionless on the ground, his blood staining the ice-covered earth in a growing pool of crimson.
His eyes stared at nothing, already glazed over.
Iain knelt nearby, disarmed, with a sword at his throat.
Liam had finally fallen from his horse—but whether he was unconscious or dead, she couldn’t tell.
They’re dead because I needed protection. Because I couldnae just stay put.
Her fingers found the edge of her torn cloak, rubbing the fabric frantically.
“Well now,” the man holding her—a scarred brute with cold eyes—grinned down at her. “His lairdship’s goin’ tae be very pleased.”
Alyson tried to speak, but terror had stolen her voice. All she could manage was a weak shake of her head, her fingers still working the cloak’s edge like a talisman against evil.
“Och, dinnae fash yerself, lassie.” His breath was hot and rank against her face. “We willnae hurt ye and spoil yer weddin’ night.”
Weddin’?
The word cut through her paralysis like a blade through silk.
“Nay,” she managed. “I’ll never—”
“Ye’ll dae as yer told.” He yanked her closer, making her stumble. “Ye’ll pay the debt the MacDonald clan owes Laird Grant!”
He shoved her, and turned around as another warrior approached—older, grey streaking his beard. “Bind her. We need tae move before—”
A rock struck him square in the temple with a wet, meaty sound.
The grey-bearded man staggered, blood trickling down his face. It ran into his eye, and he pawed at it with one hand, cursing in Gaelic. For one single heartbeat, everyone froze in shock.
I cannae believe I actually hit him!
“Ye wee bitch!” the scarred man lunged toward her. “Ye’ll regret—”
She drove her foot up between his legs with every ounce of strength she could muster. His agonized howl split the air, and Alyson ran.
She didn’t know where she was running, didn’t care. She simply picked a direction and ran with single-minded desperation, branches whipping at her face, roots threatening to trip her with every step.
Her cloak caught on a thorn bush, but she tore it free and kept going. Her lungs were on fire, her legs screaming in protest, but she kept pushing forward.
Behind her, they shouted, crashing through the undergrowth in pursuit.
Just a wee bit further. Just—
A deer jumped in front of her, and Alyson startled and veered sharply left, her ankle twisting in a hole. She went down hard, palms scraping against sharp stones that bit deep.
Ye have tae get up. If they catch ye—
Heavy footsteps approached from behind. Alyson rolled onto her back, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she stared up at the warrior looming over her.
She opened her mouth—to scream, to fight, to do something…
But darkness was already creeping in at the edges of her vision, her body finally surrendering to exhaustion and terror and the weight of too many nightmares made flesh.
The last thing she saw before the world went black was the man’s face –all predatory malice wrapped up in harsh lines.
And then, nothing.