Chapter 1
The dungeon reeked of old blood and despair.
Murdock Lyall sat perfectly still as the guards bound his wrists to the wooden chair, rough hemp biting into his skin. His dark hair hung damp against his face, obscuring fresh bruises that bloomed along his jaw. His eyes, cold and deadly, never left the two men circling him like carrion birds.
“Comfortable, me Laird?” the taller guard sneered, yanking the rope tighter.
Murdock didn’t flinch. “Aye. Though the hospitality leaves much to be desired.”
The guards exchanged glances, uncertain whether he was mocking them or had simply gone mad.
Most men would be begging by now, pleading for mercy, rattling off promises of gold and land. But Murdock Lyall sat there like a king on his throne, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, as though the dungeon existed to serve him rather than break him.
“Ye’ve got some nerve,” the shorter guard muttered, testing the knots one last time. “Threatenin' our Laird like that.”
“Threatenin'?” Murdock’s voice was low, almost conversational. “I merely stated a fact.”
“And what fact is that?”
“That me clan will pay nay cowards threatenin' a bairn.”
The taller guard stepped closer, fists clenched, jaw tight. “Ye think ye’re in a position to make demands? Look around ye, Lyall. Ye’re the one tied to a chair in our dungeon.”
Murdock’s lips curled into something that might have been a smile if it weren’t so cold. “Aye. And ye’ll be the ones to pay for trying to snatch me daughter.”
The guards laughed, the sound echoing off damp stone walls.
It was the kind of laughter born from nerves rather than genuine amusement, the kind that came when men tried to convince themselves they held all the power.
“Brave words from a man in chains,” the shorter one said, pulling a dagger from his belt. Firelight caught the blade, making it gleam like a promise. “Let’s see how brave ye are when we’re done with ye.”
“If ye’re so scary as they say,” the taller guard added, circling behind him, “why arenae ye reactin'?”
The dagger plunged into Murdock’s stomach.
Not deep. Just enough to make most men scream, to break them. The blade twisted slightly before pulling free, and warm blood seeped through his tunic, spreading like spilled wine across the fabric.
Murdock didn’t make a sound.
His jaw tightened, the only indication he’d felt anything at all. His breathing remained steady and controlled, as though he were sitting at his own hearth rather than bleeding in a dungeon chair. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before, almost thoughtful.
“Ah, but where’s the fun in doin' that when ye expect it?”
The shorter guard hesitated, the bloodied dagger still in his hand.
Good. He understood that there was something wrong about this. Something deeply, fundamentally wrong about a man who could take a blade to the gut without so much as a whimper.
The guard’s fingers tightened on the hilt, knuckles white.
The taller guard moved closer, drawing his own knife. “Maybe ye need more convincin'.”
He pressed the blade to Murdock’s cheek, just below his eye. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged it down, carving a thin red line through stubble and existing scars. Blood welled immediately, running hot down Murdock’s face and dripping onto his shoulder in dark, steady drops.
Still, Murdock said nothing. He simply looked at them, and in that gaze was every promise of violence he’d ever made and kept. No bravado. No rage. Just cold certainty.
“What are ye?” the shorter guard whispered, taking an involuntary step back.
“Someone ye should have left alone.” Murdock’s voice was so low, so utterly devoid of emotion, that both guards stood a little straighter.
This wasn’t a man begging for his life. This was a predator biding his time, counting heartbeats until the moment came.
“Let’s go,” the taller guard said abruptly, shoving his companion toward the door. “Let him rot for a while. See if that loosens his tongue.”
They fled, boots echoing against stone as they scrambled up the stairs. The heavy door slammed shut behind them, and the lock clicked into place with a finality that would have terrified most prisoners.
Murdock sat alone in the flickering torchlight, blood pooling beneath his chair. His breathing remained steady. The pain was there, burning and insistent, but pain was an old companion. He’d learned long ago how to push it aside, to focus on what mattered.
Skye. His daughter was safe in Ainsley. That was all that mattered.
Keith Gilmore would learn soon enough what happened to men who threatened Clan Ainsley. They all did, eventually.
The dining hall was too quiet.
Leona sat across from Keith, pushing venison around her plate. The servants had been dismissed after bringing the food, another one of Keith’s habits that made her skin crawl. He liked having her alone, liked watching her squirm under his gaze.
“Are ye nae hungry, Cousin?”
His voice was pleasant enough, but Leona knew better than to trust it. She forced herself to take a bite, chewing mechanically and tasting nothing.
“It’s delicious. Thank ye.”
“Liar.” He smiled when he said it, as if her discomfort amused him. “Ye’ve barely touched yer plate since we sat down.”
Because every moment at this table feels like sitting across from a wolf.
But she only smiled and reached for her wine cup, her fingers steady despite the tremor she felt inside.
“I’m simply tired. It’s been a long day.”
“Aye, well, ye’d better rest up.” Keith leaned back in his chair, swirling his own wine. “We have much to prepare for.”
Leona’s hand stilled on the cup. “Prepare for?”
“Our weddin', of course.” He watched her over the rim of his cup, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. “As soon as the bastard pays, we’ll get married. It’s been six months since yer faither died, Leona. I’ll nae delay it any further.”
The venison turned to lead in her stomach. Six months. Half a year since her father’s heart had simply… stopped. Since Keith had swept in like a vulture, claiming the Lairdship that should have been Rufus’s when he came of age.
Since he’d trapped her with threats and promises and that horrible, knowing smile.
“What bastard are ye referring to that’s nae yerself?” The words escaped before she could stop them.
The room went very, very still.
Keith’s smile didn’t falter, but something shifted in his eyes, something dark and dangerous that made her heart hammer against her ribs. The air itself seemed to thicken.
He rose slowly, setting down his wine with exaggerated care. His boots thudded against the floor as he crossed to her side of the table, each step measured and purposeful.
“What did ye say?”
Leona’s mouth went dry. “I only meant…”
His hand shot out, and his fingers dug into her arm hard enough to bruise. He yanked her to her feet so forcefully that her chair toppled backward, clattering against the stone floor with a sound that seemed to echo forever.
“Ye will heed me.” His voice was soft now, dangerously soft. The kind of soft that preceded violence. “Do ye understand?”
She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened like a vise. Pain shot up her arm, and she bit back a gasp, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
“Keith, please…”
“I’m to be yer husband.” He pulled her closer, close enough that she could see the wine staining his teeth, smell the rage simmering beneath his carefully maintained composure. “Ye’ll show me the respect I’m due.”
Leona’s eyes darted around the empty hall, searching desperately for an escape, a witness, anyone who might intervene. But there was no one. Keith had made sure of that. He always did.
“I didnae mean…” She forced her voice to steady, adopting the light, teasing tone that had sometimes cooled his temper. “Ye should ken by now that I often jest. It’s only me way.”
“I didnae laugh.”
His free hand slid down her arm in a mockery of tenderness, fingers trailing over her sleeve until they found her wrist. His thumb pressed directly over the scar hidden beneath the fabric, the thin white line he’d carved there three months ago when she’d tried to refuse his proposal outright.
The scar throbbed at his touch, a phantom pain that was somehow worse than the original cut.
“Ye remember what happened the last time I wasnae entertained,” Keith said quietly. It wasn’t a question.
Leona nodded, hating the tears that pricked her eyes, hating the tremor in her hands, hating herself for the fear that made her small and obedient.
“Daenae challenge me, Leona. I’ll nae warn ye again.”
“I willnae,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
For a long moment, he simply stared at her, searching her face for any hint of defiance, any spark of rebellion that needed crushing. Then, apparently satisfied, he released her arm and stepped back.
Leona stumbled slightly, catching herself on the edge of the table. Her arm ached where he’d gripped it, and she knew there would be fingerprint-shaped bruises by morning, another secret constellation of marks hidden beneath her sleeves.
“Good.” Keith returned to his seat, picking up his wine as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just reminded her exactly how trapped she was. “Now, I have some news that might brighten yer mood.”
Leona remained standing, not trusting her legs to carry her back to her chair. “What news?”
“I’m holding Laird Ainsley in the dungeons.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. “What?”
Keith smiled, clearly pleased with her reaction. “Aye. Murdock Lyall himself. The great Beast of Ainsley, brought low and chained in our cellar. Poetic, is it nae?”
Leona’s mind raced.
Murdock Lyall.
She’d heard the stories. Who hadn’t? The warrior who’d survived his father’s cruelty, only to become something even more dangerous. The man who’d ended wars with his sword arm alone. The Laird who protected his clan with such fierce loyalty that enemies whispered his name like a curse.
“But… but me faither ended that war almost a year ago. There was a treaty…”