Chapter 2
The dungeon stairs were steep and narrow, each step slick with moisture that seeped through the ancient stone.
Leona descended carefully, one hand pressed against the wall for balance, the other clutching the basket of supplies against her chest. Nyx perched on top of the basket, unnaturally still, as if she sensed the danger lurking in the shadows below.
Torchlight flickered from somewhere ahead, casting dancing shadows that made Leona’s heart hammer against her ribs.
The corridor opened into a wider space, and she paused, pressing herself against the wall.
Two guards sat at a rough wooden table near the far end, playing cards and passing a flask between them.
Neither looked particularly alert, more bored than vigilant, their shoulders slack with drink and tedium.
She waited, barely breathing, until one of them stood with a yawn.
“I’m off for a piss. Try nae to lose all yer coin while I’m gone.”
The other guard waved him off without looking up from his cards. “Aye, aye. Hurry back so I can take the rest of it.”
The moment the first guard disappeared down a side corridor, the second became absorbed in studying his hand, lips moving silently as he counted cards.
This was her chance.
She slipped past the table like a shadow, the basket clutched tight to muffle any sound. Her pulse thundered so loud she was certain the guard would hear it, but he never looked up, never noticed the girl and cat moving through the darkness behind him.
Three cells lined the far wall, two of them empty. The third…
Leona stopped, her breath catching in her throat.
Even in the dim torchlight, even bloodied and bound to a chair, Murdock Lyall was the most magnificent man she’d ever seen.
He sat with his spine straight despite his wounds, dark hair falling across a face that looked like it had been carved from granite and shadow.
Broad shoulders strained against the ropes binding him, and even injured, even captive, there was something primal about him.
Something that made her think of wolves and winter storms and things too dangerous to touch.
His eyes opened as she approached, and she froze.
They were the color of midnight, cold and assessing, with an intelligence that made her feel stripped bare.
Those eyes swept over her once, taking in her hastily thrown-on cloak, her bare feet, the basket in her arms, the cat perched atop it.
Then they settled on her face with an intensity that made heat bloom low in her belly.
“Well,” he said, his voice rough as gravel. “This is unexpected.”
Leona’s mouth went dry. She’d rehearsed a dozen explanations, a hundred excuses, but they all fled at the sound of his voice. It was deep and dark, like whisky and smoke, with an edge that suggested violence barely leashed.
“I…” She swallowed hard, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. “I brought supplies. For yer wounds.”
One dark brow rose. “Did the Laird tell ye to tend to me wounds?”
“If he kent I was here,” Leona managed, her voice steadier than she felt, “I’d probably be the one that needs tendin' to.”
Something flickered in those midnight eyes. Surprise, perhaps, or fury. He studied her more carefully now, and Leona felt her skin prickle under the weight of his gaze.
She forced herself to move, setting the basket down and lifting Nyx from it. The cat immediately slunk to a corner, yellow eyes fixed on Murdock with feline suspicion, tail twitching.
“Who are ye?” he asked.
Leona knelt beside the basket, pulling out clean cloths and the jar of salve she’d stolen from the healer’s stores. “I’m the real Laird’s daughter.”
“The real Laird?”
“Me faither.” The words came out bitter. “He died six months ago. And now his nephew, me cousin, has claimed the Lairdship.” She hesitated, then added quietly, “He’s made me his betrothed.”
Silence fell between them.
Leona could feel Murdock watching her as she approached the cell door, pushing it open with trembling fingers. She could sense the tension coiling through his body like a spring wound too tight, ready to snap.
“May I?” She gestured to his wounds.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he nodded.
Leona’s hands trembled as she knelt before him and reached out. The moment her fingers touched his skin, a bolt of awareness shot through her, so sharp and unexpected that she nearly pulled away.
His skin was warm despite the chill in the dungeons, the muscles beneath corded with strength even in his weakened state. She could feel his pulse beating beneath her fingertips, steady and strong. Something about that, about touching him, being this close, made her breathing quicken.
Focus. He’s injured. Bleeding. This isnae the time for…
But her body wasn’t listening. Every brush of her fingers against his skin sent sparks racing up her arms. Every breath brought his scent, salt and copper and something darker, more masculine, until her head spun with it.
“The wound in yer stomach,” she said, her voice coming out huskier than intended. “It needs cleanin'.”
Murdock’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak. He simply watched her with those devastating eyes as she soaked a cloth in water and pressed it gently to the cut.
He hissed through his teeth.
“Sorry,” Leona murmured, though she didn’t stop. The wound wasn’t as deep as she’d feared, but it was angry and red, blood still seeping from the edges. “This will sting.”
“I’ve had worse.”
His voice rumbled in his chest, and Leona was suddenly acutely aware of how close she was. Kneeling between his spread thighs. Her face level with his torso. Her hands on his skin.
Heat flooded her cheeks. She focused on her work, carefully cleaning the dried blood away, trying to ignore the way her heart raced every time her fingers brushed against the hard planes of his stomach.
But it was impossible to ignore. Impossible not to notice the way his breath hitched when she touched a particularly sensitive spot. Impossible not to feel the heat radiating from his body, or the way her own body responded.
Her pulse quickened, and her skin flushed. That strange liquid warmth pooled low in her belly.
What was wrong with her? He was injured, imprisoned, and she was promised to another man. This was hardly the time for such thoughts.
“Ye’re gentle,” Murdock said suddenly, his voice softer than before.
Leona looked up, meeting his gaze. Something in his expression had shifted. The cold calculation was replaced by something warmer, more human.
“I try to be,” she said quietly. “Me faither used to say that gentleness was a strength, nae a weakness.”
“Wise man.”
“Aye.” The word caught in her throat. “He was.”
Murdock was quiet for a moment, then: “And yer cousin? Is he wise?”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “Keith is many things, but wise isnae one of them.”
She moved to the cut on his cheek, gently tilting his face toward the light. This close, she could see the other scars that marred his skin. Old wounds layered over older ones. A map of violence written in scar tissue and memory.
Her fingers trembled as she cleaned the fresh cut, and she felt more than heard his sharp intake of breath when she pressed too hard.
“Sorry,” she whispered again.
His hand moved, just slightly, just enough that his fingers brushed against her wrist where it rested near his shoulder. The touch was brief, barely there, but it sent sparks through her veins.
Leona froze, cloth still pressed to his cheek, acutely aware of every point where their bodies nearly touched. His thigh against her knee. His breath warm on her throat. His fingers still resting against her wrist.
“Ye’re shakin',” he noted quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
The word was gentle, almost teasing.
When Leona dared to look at him again, she found something new in his expression. A heat that matched the one building in her chest.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “How old are ye?”
“Two-and-twenty.”
“Young,” he murmured.
“Old enough,” she countered, though her voice wavered.
His fingers tightened fractionally around her wrist. “Old enough for what?”
Leona’s breath caught. She knew she should pull away, should finish tending his wounds, and leave before someone discovered her. But she couldn’t seem to make herself move.
“Old enough to ken when I’m in danger,” she whispered.
Murdock’s eyes darkened. “And are ye? In danger?”
Aye, but nae from ye.
Instead of answering, she resumed cleaning his wounds, though her hands were steadier now. The silence between them had shifted.
“Yer wrist,” Murdock said suddenly.
Leona’s movements stilled.
“The scar,” he continued, his voice harder now. “Is he the one who did that?”
There was no point in lying.
Leona nodded, setting down her cloth.
For a long moment, Murdock said nothing. When she dared to glance at his face, she found that his expression had grown cold again, but it was a different kind of cold.
“When?” The word came out clipped.
“Three months ago. I tried to refuse his proposal.” She laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “He made sure I understood the consequences of defiance.”
Something dangerous flickered in Murdock’s eyes. A violence so absolute it should have frightened her. But instead, Leona felt oddly… protected.
“He’ll answer for that,” Murdock said quietly.
It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.
Leona’s throat tightened. No one had ever looked at her like that. Like her pain mattered. Like her scars were wounds worth avenging.
“I should go,” she said, though she made no move to leave. “Before the guards return.”
“Aye.”
But neither of them moved. They simply stared at each other in the flickering torchlight.
Finally, Leona forced herself to stand. Her legs felt unsteady, and she had to press one hand against the wall for balance. Murdock watched her every move, his dark eyes tracking her like a predator tracking its prey.
She gathered her supplies with shaking hands and shoved them back into the basket. Nyx materialized from the shadows, weaving between her ankles with a soft chirp.
Leona reached the cell door, one hand on the heavy iron. She should lock it behind her. Should leave him here and forget this ever happened. Instead, she pulled the door closed but didn’t turn the key.
The soft click of the lock not engaging seemed impossibly loud in the quiet dungeon.
“Why?” Murdock’s voice stopped her before she could flee.
Leona turned back, finding him watching her with that same intense focus that made her feel seen in a way she’d never experienced before.
“Why what?”
“Why help me? Ye daenae ken me. I could be as much a monster as they say.”
Leona studied him. This dangerous, beautiful man who’d let her touch him. Who’d noticed her scars. Who looked at her like she was something more than a pawn to be moved across a board.
“Because,” she said softly, “I think we’re both prisoners here. The only difference is that yer chains are visible. Or, perhaps, a monster is just what I need.”
Something flashed across his expression. Surprise, perhaps, or recognition.
He leaned forward slightly, the ropes creaking with the movement. “How can I repay ye the good ye’ve done, lass?”
Leona’s heart hammered against her ribs as a dozen answers rose to the tip of her tongue.
She thought of Keith’s hands on her wrist, his threats, the wedding that loomed like an executioner’s blade.
She thought of the way Murdock had looked at her scars, the barely leashed violence in his eyes when he’d promised retribution.
She thought of freedom.
The words came out before she could stop them, raw and desperate and achingly honest.
“Take me with ye.”