Chapter 1
Northern England, 1308
“She’ll be tamed soon enough.”
The words drifted through the heavy oak door, wrapping around Lilias MacEanruig’s throat like a noose. She pressed herself against the cold stone wall, her fingers digging into the rough surface.
“A Highland bride requires a firm hand, Lord de Vere.” Her father’s voice carried the false joviality that accompanied his political maneuverings. “My daughter has spirit, but she’ll serve you well.”
“Spirit?” Lord Richard de Vere’s laugh cut through the air like steel against stone. “I’ve broken horses more stubborn than your daughter, Laird MacEanruig. By the time I’m finished with her, she’ll kneel when I enter a room.”
Lilias’s stomach twisted as bile rose in her throat. She had suspected what kind of man her father had betrothed her to, but hearing it confirmed made her blood run cold. The English noble’s reputation had reached even the remote corners of her father’s lands—tales of servants with unexplained bruises, a previous wife who died under mysterious circumstances.
A firm hand indeed.
She pushed away from the wall, her decision hardening like armor around her heart. She would not become another broken possession in Richard de Vere’s collection.
The plan she’d been nurturing for weeks crystallized in her mind. Tonight. It had to be tonight.
She moved silently down the corridor, keeping to the shadows. The borrowed servant’s garb—a coarse brown dress and threadbare cloak—scratched against her skin, a far cry from the fine wool and linen she typically wore. But the discomfort was a small price for freedom.
The castle slumbered around her, the hour late enough that most had retired, yet early enough that the night guards were still alert. She knew their patterns; three weeks in this prison of a castle had given her that much.
Counting her heartbeats, she waited until the guard at the end of the corridor turned the corner, then slipped through a narrow door that led to the servants’ stairwell. The smell of tallow candles and old sweat filled her nostrils with the scent of people who lived in the underbelly of the massive stone structure.
Down she went, careful to place her feet on the edges of the worn steps where they wouldn’t creak. The rough wool of her stolen cloak caught on a nail, and she bit back a curse as she tugged it free. Something ripped, but she pressed on.
At the bottom of the stairs, Lilias paused, listening. The kitchens lay beyond—quiet now, but not deserted. The head cook and a few scullery maids would still be preparing for tomorrow’s breakfast. She reached into the small pouch tied at her waist and withdrew the sleeping draught she’d traded her mother’s silver brooch for, her last connection to home. The herbwoman had promised it would work quickly, especially diluted in wine.
She slipped into the kitchen, head down like any other servant. A stout woman stood at a massive table, kneading dough for the morning’s bread, while two younger girls scrubbed pots in the corner. None looked up as Lilias moved to the far side of the room where a jug of watered wine sat—the servants’ evening ration.
With a quick glance to ensure no one watched, she emptied the vial into the jug, swirling it gently with her finger. The bitter herbal scent dissipated quickly into the sour smell of cheap wine.
“You there!” The cook’s voice sliced through the air. “What are you doing?”
Lilias froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. She turned slowly, keeping her face downcast. “Just thirsty, m’lady.”
The cook snorted. “I’m no lady, girl. And if you’re after wine, pour yourself a cup and be quick about it. No dipping your dirty fingers in the jug.”
“Yes, m—” Lilias caught herself. “Yes.”
She poured a small cup as instructed but didn’t drink. Instead, she watched from the corner of her eye as the cook called the girls over.
“That’s enough for tonight. Take your wine and off to bed with you.”
The girls, neither older than fourteen, eagerly abandoned their pots and reached for the jug. Guilt twisted in Lilias’s belly as they drank deeply, but she hardened herself against it. They would sleep soundly, nothing more.
“You as well,” the cook said, eyeing Lilias. “I don’t recognize you.”
“New, m’am,” Lilias mumbled. “From the kitchens at Reedmere.”
The cook’s eyes narrowed, but the late hour and promise of rest won out over suspicion. She took a long swallow from her own cup, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Go on then.”
Lilias shuffled toward the outer door, moving slowly enough not to arouse suspicion but quickly enough to ensure she was gone before the draught took effect. Outside, the courtyard was lit by intermittent torches, pools of orange light breaking up the darkness.
She kept to the shadows, moving along the wall toward the stables. The air was cold, a biting wind sweeping down from the north carrying the promise of a hard frost. Her breath clouded before her face, and she tugged the cloak tighter.
A sudden laugh from the guard tower made her flatten against the wall. Two men, their silhouettes black against the night sky, passed a wineskin between them.
“Did you see that Highland bitch at supper?” one said, his voice carrying in the still air. “Sitting there like she’s the Queen of England, not some savage’s daughter.”
“Lord de Vere’ll tame her,” the other replied. “My brother serves in his household. Says he has ways of dealing with disobedient women.”
Lilias’s fingernails bit into her palms. Savage. Highland bitch. She’d heard such slurs since arriving in England, but they still stung. The English saw her people as little better than animals—brutal, primitive, unrefined. They didn’t understand the complex codes of honor, the deep family bonds, the fierce loyalty that bound clan to clan, warrior to chief.
The guards moved on, and she continued toward the stables, her resolve strengthening with each step. In the darkness, the building was a black outline against the night sky. The door creaked as she pushed it open, and the warm smell of hay and horse enveloped her.
Inside, the stables were nearly pitch dark, with only thin streams of moonlight filtering through cracks in the walls. The horses shifted restlessly in their stalls, sensing an intruder. Lilias moved confidently now, finding the stall that housed her own mare, a fleet-footed Highland pony gifted by her father before she knew what kind of man he truly was.
“Easy, Branna,” she whispered, reaching out to stroke the mare’s velvet nose. The horse nickered softly, recognizing her mistress despite the strange clothes and late hour.
Working quickly, she found the saddle and bridle she’d hidden earlier beneath a pile of old blankets. Her fingers fumbled with the unfamiliar task—at home, there had always been stable boys to help, but she’d observed enough to manage. The saddle settled awkwardly, and she tugged at the girth strap, checking it was secure before slipping the bit into Branna’s mouth.
A soft groan from the corner of the stables made her blood freeze. The stable master stirred on his bed of straw, muttering in his sleep. Lilias held her breath, one hand on Branna’s nose to keep her quiet.
The man smacked his lips, rolled over, and began to snore again.
Exhaling slowly, Lilias led Branna toward the stable door, each creak of leather and whisper of hooves against straw sounding thunderous in her ears. Outside, she paused again, scanning the courtyard. The guards had moved on, their voices a distant murmur from the far wall.
The postern gate—that was her target. The smaller entrance would be guarded by a single man, easier to slip past than the main gate with its watchtower and portcullis.
Leading Branna along the shadow of the wall, Lilias approached the postern gate. As expected, a single guard stood before it, his pike resting against the wall as he stamped his feet against the cold.
The sleeping draught would not help her here. Instead, she reached into her pouch and withdrew a small stone, then threw it hard toward the opposite corner of the courtyard. It clattered loudly against the cobblestones.
The guard straightened, peering into the darkness. “Who’s there?” He hefted his pike, moving cautiously toward the sound.
Lilias waited until he’d taken several steps, then darted forward with Branna. The key hung from a ring at the guard’s belt, but she’d prepared for this too. From her sleeve, she pulled a thin metal rod—a hairpin stolen from one of her father’s lady guests—and inserted it into the lock. The simple mechanism yielded quickly, a skill taught to her by one of her brothers in childhood games that had seemed harmless then.
The door swung open with a groan that seemed to echo across the courtyard. The guard turned.
“Hey! Stop!”
Lilias swung onto Branna’s back, kicking the door wide and urging the mare through. The guard’s shout rose behind her, followed by the clang of an alarm bell. They’d discovered her missing sooner than she’d hoped.
Branna’s hooves thundered on the packed earth as Lilias bent low over her neck, urging her faster. The road stretched before them, a pale ribbon in the moonlight, but she veered off into the fields. The direct route would be the first place they’d search.
Wind whipped her hair from beneath her hood as they galloped across the open field. Behind her, more shouts rose from the castle, and the glow of torches spilled from the main gate. They were organizing a search party.
“Faster, girl,” she whispered to Branna. “We need distance before they mount.”
The mare responded, stretching into a gallop that ate up the ground. Lilias’s thighs burned with the effort of staying seated without a proper riding dress, and her hands were already raw from the reins, but she pushed the discomfort aside.
They reached the edge of a stand of trees, and she guided Branna into the shelter of the forest. The darkness beneath the branches was nearly complete, forcing her to slow their pace. She strained to hear over the pounding of her own heart, listening for pursuit.
For now, there was nothing, but it wouldn’t last. Her father’s men were skilled trackers, and Lord de Vere would not let his prize escape so easily. By dawn, they would be on her trail.
The forest opened to a shallow stream, and Lilias directed Branna into the water. The shock of cold made the mare snort and dance sideways, but Lilias held firm, guiding her upstream. Water would mask their scent and obscure their tracks, buying precious time.
They followed the stream for nearly a mile before Lilias allowed Branna to climb the opposite bank. The chill had penetrated her bones, her feet and hands numb with cold, but fear and determination kept her moving.
Ahead lay the borderlands and beyond them, Scotland—the Highlands and relative safety. She had distant kin among the MacDonalds in the north, relatives who might shelter her, especially if she brought news of English movements. It was a desperate plan, relying on the Highland code of hospitality and family loyalty, but it was all she had.
The night wore on, and Lilias pushed Branna as hard as she dared. The mare was strong, bred for the Highland terrain, but even she had limits. When the horse’s breathing became labored, Lilias reluctantly slowed to a walk, allowing her to recover.
During these periods of slow movement, fear crept back in. The vastness of what she had done—fleeing her father, her betrothed, her duty—threatened to overwhelm her. In the quiet darkness, doubts whispered insidiously in her ear. What if she didn’t reach safety? What if her kin turned her away? What if she was simply trading one form of captivity for another?
She pushed the thoughts away. Anything was better than becoming Lord de Vere’s broken doll.
As the sky began to lighten in the east, Lilias reached a ridge overlooking the borderlands. In the gray pre-dawn light, the terrain stretched before her—wild, rugged, and beautiful in its harshness. Scotland. She was close.
The sight gave her renewed strength. She urged Branna down the ridge, picking their way carefully over the uneven ground. The borderlands were dangerous, patrolled by English soldiers and Scottish raiders alike. Neither would look kindly on a lone woman.
By mid-morning, exhaustion dragged at her limbs like lead weights. She had been awake for more than a day, tense with preparation and then the desperate flight. Branna, too, was flagging, her head dropping lower with each step.
“We need rest, girl,” Lilias murmured, patting the mare’s neck. “Just a little longer, and we’ll find somewhere safe.”
The landscape had changed subtly—more rocks, fewer trees, the ground rising steadily toward the distant mountains. The Highlands proper were still days away, but she was undoubtedly in Scotland now. The thought brought a fierce surge of joy.
Ahead, a small copse of trees offered the promise of shelter. Lilias guided Branna toward it, scanning for any sign of threat. Birds sang in the branches, a good sign. They would fall silent if humans were nearby.
Inside the grove, she found a small clearing sheltered from the wind. Water gurgled nearby from a tiny spring bubbling from between rocks. Perfect.
She dismounted, her legs nearly buckling beneath her as her feet hit the ground. Every muscle screamed in protest, unused to the sustained riding. She hobbled to the spring, cupping her hands to drink the cold, clear water. It tasted of freedom.
Branna drank deeply beside her, then began to crop at the sparse grass. Lilias removed the saddle, letting the mare rest properly. She wouldn’t be able to stay long—a few hours at most—but they both needed to recover before continuing north.
Finding a relatively comfortable spot beneath a gnarled oak, Lilias settled with her back against the trunk. She kept her small knife in her hand—a woman alone couldn’t be too careful—but allowed her eyes to close.
Just for a moment.
When she jolted awake, the sun had moved significantly across the sky. Panic surged through her veins as she realized she’d slept far longer than intended. Branna grazed peacefully nearby, unconcerned.
Lilias struggled to her feet, wincing at the stiffness in her legs and back. She’d need to move quickly now to make up for lost time. Her pursuers would not have stopped to rest.
As she reached for Branna’s bridle, a sound froze her in place—the soft crunch of boots on fallen leaves. Not coming from behind, where she’d expect pursuers, but from ahead.
She spun, knife raised, as a figure emerged from the trees.
He was massive—taller than any man had a right to be, with shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway. Black hair fell to his shoulders, framing a face that might have been carved from granite. But it was his eyes that stole her breath—stormy gray-blue, cold and calculating as they assessed her.
She knew those eyes. Five years had passed, but she would never forget them.
“Niall MacCraith,” she whispered, the name bitter on her tongue.
Recognition flared in his gaze, followed by something darker. His mouth—once gentle in a moment of shared confidence—curved into a humorless smile.
“Lady Lilias,” he said, his voice deep and rough. “Fate has a cruel sense o’ humor, has it no? Didnae expect tae find ye here o’ all places.”
Before she could move, he was on her. One large hand closed around her wrist, twisting until the knife fell from her numb fingers. The other arm snaked around her waist, pulling her hard against him as he lifted her bodily from the ground.
She fought like a wildcat, kicking and clawing, but he held her as easily as a child might hold a doll. His breath was warm against her ear as he spoke, the sound rumbling through his chest and into hers.
“Wheesht now, lass. Stop yer thrashing about. Ye’ll do naught but hurt yerself, and I dinnae wish tae see that.”
“Let me go!” She drove her elbow back, connecting with solid muscle that didn’t even flinch.
“I cannae do that.” His grip tightened, pinning her arms to her sides. “Ye’ve become quite the valuable wee prize, it seems. Worth more than gold tae some.”
The betrayal of five years ago rushed back, fresh as yesterday. This man—this warrior she had saved, hidden, tended to when he lay wounded in her father’s castle—had repaid her kindness by leading a raid against her clan. And now he hunted her like prey.
“I should have let you die,” she hissed.
Something flickered in those storm-cloud eyes—regret, perhaps, or merely calculation. But it was gone before she could name it.
“Aye,” he agreed, his voice dropping lower. “Mayhap ye should have. ‘Twould have been kinder for us both.”
The last thing Lilias saw was his hand moving toward her face, a cloth clutched in his massive fingers. A sweet, cloying smell filled her nostrils as the world spun and darkness claimed her.