Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
“We need tae move before MacLean’s men find us.”
The rough gravelly voice dragged Alyson back to consciousness, like a fishhook through flesh. Pain throbbed behind her eyes, and when she tried to move, rough hemp bit into her wrists as someone yanked her arms behind her back.
Nay… this cannae be happenin’ again!
“Should we gag her?” Another voice said, younger.
“Aye. But dinnae hurt her… much,” he chuckled. “His lairdship wants her intact.”
Alyson forced her eyes open despite the persistent pounding in her skull.
Grant warriors surrounded her, their faces grim with purpose.
She sat propped against a tree trunk, head still spinning.
She peered through the bare branches overhead, noticing that the sun had climbed higher—how long had she been unconscious?
Her ribs ached where she’d hit the ground. Her palms stung from scraping against stones. But worse than any physical pain was the suffocating weight of anxiety pressing down on her chest, stealing her breath.
The smell hit her next—leather and sweat and something metallic that might have been blood. Old blood. These men had killed recently, and the evidence of it clung to them like a shroud that made her stomach churn.
The surrounding forest was eerily quiet now—no birdsong, no rustling leaves… just the harsh breathing of the men and the thundering of her own pulse in her ears. Frost clung to the shadows where sunlight couldn’t reach, making everything look sharp edged and dangerous.
Count, Alyson.
One… two… three…
But the numbers scattered like birds before a storm, refusing to stay in her fractured thoughts.
“Glad ye could join us, lass.” The scarred man crouched before her, his smile making bile rise in her throat.
His breath reeked of ale and rot, and up close, she could see the puckered tissue that ran from his temple to his jaw—some old battle wound that had healed poorly.
“Gave us quite a chase, ye did. But it’s over now. ” He cackled.
“Over?” she repeated hoarsely. Her tongue felt thick, her throat raw from screaming. She met his gaze and held it even as her fingers clutched frantically at her skirts. “Ye think draggin’ me before Grant solves anythin’?”
“Aye. Solves everythin’.” He said, reaching toward her face.
Alyson jerked back hard enough to crack her skull against the tree trunk. Stars burst across her vision, but she’d rather split her head open than let him touch her.
The bark bit into her scalp through her loose hair—when had she lost her braid? The memory flickered—the chase, branches tearing at her, her hair coming undone as they’d ran wildly through the forest.
The scarred man laughed. “Och… his lairdship’s goin’ tae enjoy ye!”
Never.
But her voice had fled. The rope bit into her wrists painfully—too tight, too familiar—her breath faster, shallower, darkness creeping in at the edges of her vision again.
Nay. Breathe! Ye survived Campbell, ye can survive this.
She pressed her fingers harder into her skirt, concentrating on the texture—rough wool. Real.
But her heartbeat wouldn’t slow. Each breath came shorter than the last, and she could feel panic clawing up her throat like something living and desperate.
“Steady now,” one of the younger warriors muttered, though whether to himself, or her, Alyson couldn’t tell.
His hand trembled slightly on his sword hilt.
He couldn’t have been a day over twenty, with a sparse beard that looked more hopeful than genuine.
His eyes kept darting to the trees nervously.
Good. At least I’m nae the only one.
The scarred man stood, brushing frost from his knees. “Get her on her feet. We’ve wasted enough time chasin’ this wee bird through the woods.”
Rough hands hauled her upright. Her legs nearly buckled, muscles screaming in protest. The world tilted dangerously, and for one terrible moment, she thought she might throw up right there. “Where…” she managed, her voice strained, “where are me guards?”
The silence that followed said enough.
They’re probably all dead because of me.
“Dinnae ye fash yerself about them,” the scarred man said. “Only thing ye need tae concern yerself with is pleasin’ his lairdship.”
Then, a hand clamped around her throat, fingers pressing against her windpipe—not quite choking, not yet, just a promise of what could happen if she tried to scream. The touch caused every muscle in her body to lock tightly, going rigid as her vision narrowed to a pinpoint, blurring at the edges.
“Ye be quiet as a wee church mouse now, ye hear?” He snarled in a whisper, his breath hot and sour against her face. “Such a shame that such a bonnie lass almost ended up at a nunnery—”
An arrow took him through the eye.
He jerked back with a wet, choking sound, his hand falling away from her throat as he toppled sideways into the frozen leaves.
And for one impossible moment, everything went silent, the entire world holding its breath. Alyson stared at the fletching—red feathers, still quivering slightly as blood pooled beneath the man’s body, steaming against the frozen ground.
“Bàs no Beatha!” A war cry tore through the forest.
Death or life.
It came from everywhere at once—primal, and fierce enough to halt the blood in Alyson’s veins. The Grant warriors went absolutely rigid, heads snapping toward the sound. She could see it in their eyes—the knowledge that they were already dead.
Then, chaos erupted.
Warriors poured from the trees like a sudden storm—a dozen at least, weapons drawn, faces carved from ancient Highland stone and fury. But the man leading the group was the one who made her forget how to breathe.
He stood taller than any man she’d ever seen, built like the standing stones of the old places—broad and immovable and pure masculine energy. Dark hair whipped around a face all harsh angles and unforgiving lines. The sword in his hand looked as natural on him as if it was an extension of his arm.
Even through terror, even with death skulking the ground around them, Alyson couldn’t help but notice things she had absolutely no business noticing, like the way his shoulders filled his leather jerkin with an ease that spoke of natural strength rather than practiced posturing.
Or the controlled precision in every single movement—the grace of a predator who’d never once questioned his place at the apex.
And he was looking at her like she was the most interesting thing in that blood-soaked clearing.
The man’s about tae kill everyone and here I am noticin’ how bonnie he is? I’ve lost me mind entirely!
His blade sang through the air. The grey-bearded man released Alyson and fumbled for his weapon, but death had already found him. Steel flashed once—brutal and efficient—and he crumpled without a sound.
Hot blood sprayed across Alyson’s face and neck.
She stumbled backward, bound hands making her clumsy, barely keeping her footing.
Around her, the clearing had become a slaughterhouse.
The newcomers fought with surgical precision—not a single wasted movement, no hesitation.
Steel sparked against steel. Men shouted.
The coppery stench of blood thickened the winter air until Alyson could taste it on her tongue.
What followed was less battle than execution.
The Grant warriors tried to form a defensive line, but it was like trying to hold back an avalanche with one’s bare hands.
The newcomers cut through them with brutal efficiently.
Once of the younger Grant soldiers tried to run, and an arrow took him in the back.
He went down screaming, clawing at the shaft protruding from his chest.
The scarred man was skilled, but the dark-haired giant dismantled him with terrifying ease. Three parries, two feints, then his blade swept up inside the man’s defense, slicing him open from groin to throat in one fluid motion.
The brute’s eyes went wide. He looked down at the ruin of his body, back up at the warrior’s impassive face, and collapsed.
The sound he made—wet and gurgling and utterly wrong—would haunt Alyson’s dreams for weeks to come.
Her fingers found the edge of her torn sleeve, pressing into the fabric frantically even as nausea rolled through her.
Dinnae look. Dinnae look at what’s spillin’ ontae the ground.
But she couldn’t look away. Some distant part of her knew she should close her eyes, turn her head, but she remained frozen in place—watching as the dark-haired warrior pulled his blade free and stepped over the body like it was no more significant than a fallen branch.
His movements were economical, almost beautiful. There weren’t any flourishes, no wasted energy. Just pure, controlled violence delivered with certainty. This was a man who’d killed before and would certainly kill again without hesitation.
Should I be terrified, or grateful?
Around them, the last of the fighting sputtered out.
Bodies littered the frost-covered ground, steam rising from their wounds in the cold air.
The warrior wiped his blade clean on a dead man’s plaid, his expression carved from Highland granite.
His gaze swept the clearing with cold assessment.
The remaining Grant warriors fell quickly—outnumbered, outmatched, dying on Highland steel before they could mount any defense.
Then, those amber eyes found her. And she realized, she was both.
They reminded her of whisky held up to the firelight—amber with flecks of gold and brown.
Even terrified, even covered in another person’s blood with her hands bound and her world crumbling, Alyson couldn’t help but notice the strong lines of his body—pure coiled energy and controlled violence.
The scar bisecting his left eyebrow, and how his presence seemed to warp the very air around him, making everything else fade into insignificance.
He’s the most dangerous and most bonnie thing I’ve ever seen.
And he’d just saved her life.
The warrior crossed the clearing toward her.
His boots made no sound on the frozen ground—a predator’s silence that sent fresh shivers down her spine.
Alyson fought every instinct screaming at her to run, to cower, to make herself small.
Instead, she took a steadying breath and lifted her chin, meeting his intense gaze even as her pulse hammered in her throat.
I willnae cower. Nae again. Nae ever again.
He stopped an arm’s length away. Up close, he was even more imposing—all bulk and silent authority that radiated from him like heat from a forge. His eyes travelled over her face, her torn cloak, her bound wrists. Something flickered in his expression—there and gone too fast to name.
“Can ye stand?” his voice matched the rest of him—rough and uncompromising, like gravel grinding under boot heels.
I’m already standin’, ye great ox.
Alyson thought she detected something else beneath the harshness, something that sounded almost like concern, but her legs were trembling so badly she wasn’t certain how much longer that would remain true. She locked her knees, wiling her body to remain upright.
“Lass. Look at me.”
Her chin lifted before she could stop herself, some stubborn part of her refusing to run, even now.
Up close, his face was all harsh planes and sharp lines—the face of a warrior who’d seen too much death and dealt too much of it himself. But there was something else underneath.
Then, their eyes met.
And Alyson MacDonald realized with perfect, terrifying clarity that her life was about to change forever.
“Me laird.” A broad-shouldered warrior approached from the left, his sword still dripping.
He had dark hair streaked with silver at the temples and a long scar across his jaw that gave him a roguish appearance despite the blood spattered across his face.
“The area’s clear. Nay sign of reinforcements. ”
The towering man didn’t take his eyes off Alyson. “Tristan!” his voice cut through the clearing like a blade. “Check the tree line. Make certain we’re alone.”
A younger warrior peeled away from the group—lean and wiry, with black hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing. He moved through the trees with the confidence of a man half wild, disappearing into the forest without a sound.
Around them, the other warriors were already at work. One kicked through the bodies, checking for survivors—though from the efficiency of their attack, Alyson doubted they’d find any. Another gathered fallen weapons with practiced ease, sliding them into a leather pack.
“Kenneth!” Boyd called to a grizzled warrior with a silver beard. “Get the horses. His lairdship will want tae move quickly.”
“On it.” The older man jogged toward the trees, his gait slightly uneven—an old injury, perhaps.
Alyson’s mind struggled to process it all. The systematic way they moved. The easy authority in their laird’s voice. These weren’t raiders or bandits—these were trained warriors, disciplined and deadly.
And their laird was still watching her with those unsettling amber eyes.
“Ye’re bleedin’.” His voice was quieter now, though no less commanding.
She touched her temple and her fingers came away red. She hadn’t even felt it—it must have happened when she’d cracked her head against the tree. “‘Tis naethin’.”
“‘Tis blood, lass.” He reached toward her face, then stopped himself, his hand hovering in the air between them. For a moment, something almost like uncertainty crossed his features. “May I?”
The question caught her off guard. After everything—after being dragged and bound and threatened—this stranger was asking permission to touch her?
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they tilted her face to the side, examining the wound with clinical efficiency. That close, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint white scars that marked his hands. A warrior’s hands, but steady. Careful.
“Shallow,” he pronounced. “It’ll bruise, but ye’ll live.” His thumb brushed her cheekbone—barely a touch, there and gone—before he stepped back.
The warrior called Tristan emerged from the trees, shaking his head. “Clear fer now, but Grant’s men willnae be far. They’ll have heard the fightin’.”
“Then we dinnae linger.” The laird turned back to Alyson, and for the first time, she saw something that might have been concern flicker in those amber depths. “Can ye ride?”
“I…” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again, lifting her chin with as much dignity as she could muster. “Aye. I can ride.”
“Good. Ye’re comin’ with us.”
It wasn’t a request.