Bound to Her Highland Lord (Highlands’ Lost Legacies #3)

Prologue

Snow crunched and sloshed under Sorcha’s boots, every step making her wince as she crept against the outer wall of Lord Dudley’s estate.

She could only hope that the guards patrolling the ramparts would mistake the noise for their own footsteps.

She would be damned to make it this far, to finally be on the edges of the Baron’s domain, and be caught now.

Cursing the spring for making an early appearance, Sorcha held her breath and waited for her heart to stop pounding.

Nothing had gone to plan. She had left the Kincaid Castle weeks ago, determined to rescue Taryn from whatever malady had befallen her best friend.

Foolishly, Sorcha had believed that her years riding and running with Aila had given her enough experience to track down Taryn and bring her home quickly.

This mission had been anything but quick.

Those she passed were wary of a woman traveling alone.

As such, they were selective with what information they shared—nearly all of it unhelpful.

Sorcha had spent most of the last few weeks watching taverns and inns, hiding in back alleyways, eavesdropping for any hint or whisper of where Taryn might’ve gone.

While Aila and Lachlan had gone off in search of more allies, Sorcha had gone straight for the belly of the beast. Taryn was far too loved to be wanted by anyone, save for the Englishman she had jilted.

After hearing all the atrocities Baron Dudley had committed against Lachlan’s clan, Sorcha refused to let Taryn stay in that man’s presence alone for a second longer than necessary.

Yet, for all of her sneaking and sleuthing, no one in the villages between Kincaid Castle and the Baron’s estate made mention of the runaway bride brought to justice.

There had been no mention of Taryn’s beautiful golden locks or a stark raving mad Englishman traipsing through the Highlands to capture her.

To Sorcha, that meant nothing.

She knew all too well just what this English Lord was capable of. It left her with no doubt that Taryn was here. And now Sorcha was ready to do whatever it might take to free Taryn.

For all of Lachlan’s stories of the Baron’s estate, Sorcha had been wholly unprepared for what she found.

The towering limestone walls made up a prison-like structure, square and resolute.

With a thick rampart surrounding the estate on every side, Sorcha had no choice but to try to find an opening in the beige stones if she was going to find Taryn.

Normally, she would have no issue with infiltrating such an estate.

They were often too vast and too undermanned to pose much of an issue.

Especially since the guards paid more attention to men trying to sneak in rather than a clever woman disguised as a servant. She faced two problems.

The first was that in her haste to get to Taryn and to give herself the best advantage on her travels, Sorcha had left in her leather breeches and coat.

Her coppery curls were braided and stuffed under her cap, lest the color give her away.

Not to mention the bow that was slung over her shoulder and the multiple knives she had hidden on her person.

No self-respecting guard would dare to mistake her for a woman, even with her shorter stature.

Without her skirts, plain blouses, and starched bonnet, she couldn’t pass as a servant.

And then there were the guards.

Sorcha was no stranger to the estates of wealthy, ruling men.

She knew to expect a dozen or so guards out on a patrol, watching for any sign of danger.

But the Baron’s estate was teaming with fighting men, and more poured into the courtyard by the second.

There was more going on here than everyday life.

By all of Sorcha’s estimations, the Baron was preparing to go to war.

The thought made her stomach roll. She needed to get Taryn and get back to Lachlan to warn him and Aila.

Thankful for the small sliver of moonlight and the staggered torches burning from the ramparts, Sorcha made her way around the back of the estate.

She turned a corner, careful to keep as close to the shadowed wall as possible, and caught sight of the stables.

Marking its location in her mind, she pressed on.

A few steps away was a wooden door that, with any luck, connected the estate to the stable yard.

If she could slip inside there, this passageway could also be her way back out.

Just as her fingers curled around the frozen iron pull, a heavy hand landed on her shoulder.

“I would nae do that if I were ye.”

She spun, her dagger already in her hand, poised to strike if need be. But the face she found looking back at her was a serene one, a look of warning in the man’s warm eyes.

“Lord Dudley does nae take too kindly to intruders, even the bonny ones. And with all of these soldiers to watch, he would sooner make an example of ye than grant ye clemency.”

Swallowing hard, Sorcha cocked an eyebrow, hoping her defiance would hide her fear.

“And what makes ye think I am an intruder?”

The stable master—as she had deterred looking at his clothing—studied her carefully for a moment, though his eyes didn’t have the over-indulgent look she often received from strange men.

“I have been here long enough to ken those who belong and those who dinnae. Besides, only an intruder would sneak around the castle walls the way ye have.”

Her cheeks flushed and her shoulders sank. It was becoming more evident that she wasn’t the skilled warrior she thought she was. Regardless of her ability, Taryn needed rescuing, no matter what it might cost Sorcha.

“I am telling ye, lass,” the blond man continued, “these soldiers are like nothing ye have ever seen before. Ye dinnae want to—”

“Oiy! You, there.”

Sorcha jumped again, the guard’s demanding voice a sharp contrast to the soothing tones of the horsekeeper.

With an apologetic look, the stablemaster turned her around, taking her hands in his, deftly taking the dagger from her fingers and hiding it from her before she knew what he was doing.

Just as she started to struggle, he whispered in her ear.

“Easy. Dinnae make this harder than it has to be.”

“Nay,” she whispered, yanking against his unmoving grip on her wrists.

“I found the lass scrounging for food,” the man explained to the guards. “The wee thing is hungry. Nay point in bothering my lord with such nonsense.”

“Is that so?” the guard in the center questioned, studying the dagger still sheathed on her hip. “A beggar with a weapon. I must admit, this is something I have not seen before.”

His decidedly English accent grated against her nerves the way the stable master’s calloused hands grated against her skin.

“Easy,” he shushed again. “It will make nay difference to them that ye are a woman.”

He used the same tone on her that she imagined he used on the horses. Instead of calming her, however, it only made her snarl.

“Let me go,” she bit out.

“We will take it from here, Brandon. Get back to the stables. The lords the Baron has invited can be very particular about their horses, and we would hate to disappoint them. He needs all of his guests to be in the best of moods so they will support our lord’s cause.”

Sorcha half-heard what they were discussing, too focused on escaping to let the details of their conversation take root.

Knowing she would only have a split second to act, Sorcha exploded as soon as the guard reached for her and Brandon’s grip loosened.

Having just barely managed to free her hands, she grabbed for another blade.

A fist came flying at her face that she narrowly dodged.

Too distracted by the first attack, she didn’t see the second fist that went barreling into her gut.

Had Brandon not been standing behind her, the pain and shock from the blow would have sent her to the ground.

As it was, she gritted her teeth and jabbed her weapon wildly, pleased when the dagger slid sharply across one man’s open hand.

“Get the wench,” he hissed, closing his fingers to staunch the bleeding.

Spurred by the injury of their fellow guard, the other two men stepped forward and wrestled her from in front of Brandon, throwing her to the ground.

The full weight of one man’s boot landed squarely on her back, where she would no doubt find a bruise in the morning.

A pair of rough hands wrenched her dagger from her, flinging it across the yard and into the melting snow.

Her cheek squashed against the cold mud, an insult to injury.

The same pair of rough hands passed over her body, searching her for any other knives.

With every hidden weapon he pulled out, Sorcha’s hopes of escaping plummeted.

“Get off me,” she shouted, kicking to no avail.

Men gathered on the ramparts, looking down at all the noise Sorcha was making.

Mud clung to the side of her face, dripping down her hair, turning the copper curls brown, as the guards yanked her to her feet.

Her arms were pinned painfully behind her back.

She bit back a wince, refusing to let it show just how much this defeat stung.

“We will see what you have to say when Lord Dudley gets his hands on you.”

A pit in Sorcha’s stomach formed as the smirking guards dragged her towards the hall and towards whatever fate awaited her there.