Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
“Breathe.” The word was a quiet, almost gentle rumble. “Ye need nae fear us, lass.” Keane said as he moved behind her, keeping his steps measured. She tensed—he’d expected that. Most women flinched when he neared them. His size alone was enough to unsettle them, and he couldn’t blame her.
But he made quick work of the knots anyway, careful not to let his fingers brush her skin more than necessary.
However, he could not help noticing how soft and delicate her skin was, and how his body reacted to her touch.
The rope fell away and she pulled her hands forward with a sharp intake of breath.
There were deep burns circling both wrists, angry and raw.
His jaw tightened.
“Me thanks.”
Keane stepped back, putting distance between them. She was frightened enough without him looming over her the way his father used to loom over him.
Get a hold of yerself, man!
He swiftly shoved the thought aside and focused on what mattered. “Who are ye?”
She bristled, chin lifting. “I’m nae the one who just killed six men. Perhaps ye should be the one answering’ questions.”
Fire in her still. Good.
“Seven,” he corrected, keeping his tone level. “And they were trespassin’ on me lands, attackin’ a woman. I’d say that earns me some answers.”
She exhaled slowly, and he watched her master whatever emotion had sparked in those entrancing blue eyes just moments before. “Alyson MacDonald. Sister tae Laird Tòrr MacDonald of Keppoch. I was travelin’ tae Iona Abbey when the ruffian’s ambushed us.”
“MacDonald.” The name settled heavy in his mind. He’d heard of Tòrr MacDonald—honorable man, by all accounts. “From Keppoch.”
“Aye.”
“Grant’s men were followin’ ye specifically then.” It wasn’t a question.
“Laird Cody Grant has certain… notions… about me future.” She wrapped her arms around herself against the chill in the air. “He’s been rather insistent.”
Keane’s hands flexed at his sides. That was one way of looking at it. “Insistent enough tae send armed men intae me territory at yer invitation.”
“I didnae invite them.” Color rose in her pale cheeks. “Me braither arranged safe passage fer me. We were supposed tae cross MacLean lands unmolested.”
Color tinted her pale cheeks even more, and Keane found himself noticing things he had absolutely no business noticing.
Like the way her dark hair had come loose from its braid, tumbling around her face in waves.
Or the delicate line of her jaw, and the way her lips pressed together, trying to mask her fear—full lips that trembled slightly, making him wonder—
Get a hold of yerself, man! She’s a complication, nay more.
“I gave nay such permission.”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“I gave permission fer passage. Nae fer escort or protection while doin’ so.” He watched understanding dawning on her face—watched the fear bloom. “Which means ye’ve brough Clan Grant’s aggression intae me territory. Puttin’ me people at risk.”
“I didnae…” she stopped, and when she spoke again, her voice shook with barely controlled anger. “I brought naethin’ but meself and a desire fer peace tae yer lands. If Grant follows me with ill intent, that’s his madness, nae mine.”
“Yer intentions hardly matter compared tae their outcome, lass.”
He should send her back to Kepp och with an armed escort. Wash his hands of whatever feud existed between the MacDonalds and the Grants. It was not his concern, nor his responsibility.
But even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
“Then I’ll leave,” she said, and he was surprised by the steel in her voice. “Let me continue on tae the Abbey. Once I’m behind those walls—”
“Nay. The Abbey also falls under me jurisdiction.” He held her gaze steadily. “I cannae allow ye tae bring such danger there.”
“But—”
“The nuns are under me protection, Lady Alyson. If Grant comes fer ye while ye’re at Iona, what happens then?” He didn’t soften his tone. She needed to understand. “He’ll nae show any respect fer them, their sanctuary. He’ll tear the place apart stone by stone lookin’ fer ye.”
Her face went paler still.
“What would ye have me dae?” The question came out small, defeated. “I cannae go home. Grant will follow me there. At least at the Abbey I wouldnae be endagerin’ me kin, or me clan.”
“Then ye’ll come with me.”
Daft. This is the daftest decision ye’ve ever made.
“I dinnae understand—”
“Tae Castle MacLean. Until this mess is resolved.”
“Nay.” The word burst from her throat. “Ye cannae just declare—I dinnae even ken ye!”
“Ye ken I just saved yer life.”
“And now ye think that gives ye the right tae decide me fate?” Her hands curled into fists. “I have nay interest in being kept in another cage.”
Another cage? Who hurt ye, lass?
The words snagged in his mind like a burr on wool. She’d been imprisoned before, but by whom?
“’Twill nae be a cage.” He kept his voice level, though something in her words had struck deeper than he would have liked to admit. “Ye’ll be a guest. Free tae move about the castle. Ye have me word.”
Me word. As if that means anythin’ tae her.
Her eyes flitted around the clearing—at his men, at the bodies, then back at him, weighing her options.
“How long?”
“Until we ken Grant’s next move. Until yer braither can be contacted.”
“And ye swear ye’ll let me leave when this is all done?”
“Aye.”
She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, something in her expression had shifted—resignation, maybe. Or perhaps just exhaustion.
“Then I accept yer… hospitality, Laird MacLean.” The words came out bitter. “Though I dinnae recall havin’ much choice in the matter.”
“Ye always have a choice, Lady Alyson. I’d just prefer ye made it willingly.”
Keane turned away before she could respond, before he could see whatever emotion flashed across her face. “Boyd!” Get Lady Alyson mounted up. We leave now.”
Boyd approached with his usual steady competence, leading a grey mare that looked gentle. Keane moved to where his men had gathered the horses, checking Dùbhar’s tack with unnecessary thoroughness.
His hands were still flexing—open, closed, open—and he had to concentrate to force them still.
What are ye daein’? She’s nae yer responsibility. She’s a complication ye dinnae need.
But even as he thought it, he was already plotting out how many men to post as guards. Wondering whether Grant would be foolish enough to attack Castle MacLean directly. Wondering how on earth he was supposed to keep her safe while maintaining order among his clan.
Keane swung into the saddle, settling his weight with the ease of long practice. Across the clearing, Boyd was helping Alyson onto her horse—careful, gentle, giving her space. The mare stood patiently as she settled into the saddle, her movements stiff with pain and exhaustion.
“—now that,” Kenneth’s voice drifted from somewhere behind him. “Shite, did ye see her? And even through all that grime, ye can still tell she’s—”
“Kenneth.” The warning in Keane’s voice could have frozen all the lochs in Scotland.
Because he had seen. Had felt her pressed against him when he’d cut her bounds. Had noticed exactly how perfectly her body fit against his, how his hands could circle her tiny waist with ease, how those long legs might feel wrapped around—
Stop it. Just… stop thinkin’ before ye embarrass yerself.
But Keane’s eyes lingered on her despite himself. She sat well despite her obvious discomfort, though exhaustion showed in every line of her frame. Her torn cloak hung awkwardly, her hair was a wild tangle, and bloodstained her pale skin.
She looked like she’d been through hell.
And yet…
And yet there was something about the way she held herself.
The stubborn tilt of her chin. The flash of defiance in those blue eyes when she’d challenged him.
She was terrified, yes—he could see it in the way her fingers clutched the reins too tightly, in the rapid rise and fall of her chest—but she refused to break.
Steel underneath. The kind that comes from survivin’ things meant tae destroy ye…
Their eyes met briefly across the distance. Hers were wide, uncertain, but there was iron underneath. The kind forged in fire and suffering.
Keane’s hands tightened on the reins. He’d given her his word, and that meant something to him, even if she didn’t believe it yet. He would ensure she was protected at Castle MacLean. From Grant, from his men, from anyone who might dare try to harm her.
Even from yerself, if necessary.
“Form up!” His voice carried across the clearing. “We ride hard fer home. Stay sharp—Grant’s men might still be near.”
The forest closed around them as they moved out. Keane positioned himself at the front of the column with Boyd at his side, while two of his best men rode close to Alyson. Not guards, exactly—but close enough to intervene if she needed help.
They rode in tense silence for the first mile, every warrior on edge. The winter sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows through bare branches. Frost clung to everything, making the world look sharp and brittle.
Then the path narrowed.
“Single file through here,” Boyd called out. “Stream crossing ahead.”
The terrain forced them into a tight line as they descended toward a narrow creek. The banks were steep, slick with ice and mud. Keane’s destrier managed it easily, but he heard someone struggling behind him.
He turned in his saddle just in time to see Alyson’s mare balk at the crossing.
The horse planted its feet, head tossing nervously. Alyson’s face went pale—not from fear of the horse, he realized, but from something else entirely. Her breathing had gone rapid and shallow, her knuckles white on the reins.
“Easy,” he heard her whisper to the mare. “Easy, lass. We’re safe. We’re—”
The horse stepped forward, but its hoof slipped on the icy bank. Alyson pitched sideways with a gasp.
Keane was off his horse and moving before conscious thought caught up with instinct. He caught her as she slid from the saddle, his hands closing around her waist to steady her against his chest.
She was so damned small. Delicate bones and soft curves beneath the torn cloak. For a moment she just stood there, frozen against him, her heart hammering so hard he could feel it through their clothes.
Then she jerked back as if burned.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “I’m fine. The horse just… I didnae…”
“Easy.” He kept his voice low, the same tone he’d use with a spooked animal. “Yer mare’s just nervous. The crossing’s slick.”
He could still feel the phantom warmth of her body against his. Still smell whatever herb she’d used in her hair beneath the scent of blood and fear. Lavender, maybe. Or something… sweeter.
Nae helpin’ at all, lad!
“I can manage,” she said, but her hands were shaking as she reached for the reins.
“I ken ye can.” Keane caught the mare’s bridle, steadying the animal. “But the path’s treacherous here. Let me lead her across. Ye can walk or ride—yer choice.”
For a moment, he thought she’d argue. Pride warred with practicality in those expressive eyes. Then her shoulders sagged slightly.
“I’ll walk. If ye dinnae mind.”
“I dinnae.”
He led the mare across the frozen stream, testing each step before committing his weight. Behind him, he was acutely aware of Alyson following—careful, quiet, keeping a deliberate distance between them.
When they reached the far bank, he turned to offer her a hand up.
She stared at his outstretched palm like it might bite her.
Something flickered in her expression—surprise, maybe, that he’d noticed her hesitation.
Or perhaps disbelief that any man could be trusted.
After a long moment, she placed her hand in his.
Her fingers were cold. Delicate. They trembled slightly against his palm.
Keane lifted her into the saddle as gently as he could manage, his hands spanning her waist with ease.
For one breathless moment, their faces were level—close enough that he could see the individual lashes framing those blue eyes, the small scar above her left eyebrow, the way her lips parted slightly with surprise.
Bloody hell, she’s ravishin’.
The thought arrived unbidden and unwelcome. He released her immediately, stepping back like she’d scalded him.
“We should keep movin’,” he said roughly. “Still got miles tae cover before dark.”
“Aye.” Her voice came out breathless. “Of course.”
Keane swung back onto Dùbhar with more force than necessary, angry at himself for noticing. For caring. For wanting to smooth the worry from her brow and promise her things he had no business promising.
They rode on as the sun sank lower, painting the sky in shades of amber and dying fire. The temperature dropped with it, frost crystallizing on every surface. Keane called a brief halt to let the horses rest and the men stretch cramped muscles.
Alyson dismounted stiffly, moving to stand apart from the group. She wrapped her arms around herself against the cold, staring at nothing.
Boyd appeared at Keane’s elbow, his expression knowing. “The Lady’s holdin’ together well,” his friend observed quietly. “Considerin’.”
“Aye.”
“Brave lass.”
“Aye.”
“Bonnie too.”
Keane shot him a warning look. Boyd’s lips twitched.
“Just makin’ an observation, me laird. Nay harm in noticin’ what any man with eyes can see.”
“We have more important things tae worry about than—” Keane bit off the rest of the sentence. “We have another hour tae the castle if we press. Two if we take it carefully.”
Keane glanced at Alyson. She looked ready to collapse where she stood, but she’d rather die than admit it. He recognized that particular brand of stubborn pride.
“We press,” he decided. “The sooner we’re behind walls, the better.”
“Aye.” Boyd paused. “And what are ye plannin’ tae tell the clan?”
“The truth. That she’s a guest under me protection. That anyone who troubles her will answer tae me.”
“They’ll talk.”
“Let them.”
They rode on into the gathering dusk. The forest grew thicker, older. These were ancient woods—the kind that had stood since before men-built castles or forged kingdoms from blood and stone.
Keane found himself glancing back more often than he should, checking on Alyson. She rode in silence, her face pale with exhaustion, but she never complained. Never asked to stop. Just kept going with grim determination.
Finally, as twilight deepened into true darkness, Castle MacLean came into view.
It rose from the hillside like something carved from the mountain itself—grey stone and battlements, towers reaching toward the stars. Torches blazed along the walls, their light reflected in the loch below.
Home.
Keane had rebuilt this place from ruin after his father’s death. Every stone represented a promise—to be better, stronger, more controlled than the man who’d sired him. To never let rage dictate his actions. To protect rather than destroy.
He’d kept those promises for ten years.
And now he was bringing a woman into his carefully ordered world—a woman who made him feel things he’d sworn never to feel again.
This is goin’ tae be a disaster.