One

MacPherson Castle—Loch Eireachd, Scotland, 1452

Fistfuls of hair fell to the bed like streams of molten iron. The growing pile, more orange than gold, resembled a dragon’s nest, and gleamed seductively in the firelight. Amber sighed at the sight. If only it were a real dragon’s nest and a beast could rise and smite all her enemies. One very much in particular.

She almost smiled at the fanciful thought as she chopped off her hair. Almost. In truth, her plan was an act of desperation with little chance of success. By all that was holy, she’d need a miracle to get away this time.

Grabbing another handful, she raised the knife and sawed off an even bigger chunk. The remaining strands sprang up to curl around her neck and ears, a light, airy feeling at odds with the heaviness in her heart.

Laird Machar Murray would come after her, of that she had no doubt. If he found her, no amount of false hexes or curses or threats from the devil would deter him from destroying her this time.

Her lost hair would grow back. Her lost spirit and soul could not.

The heavy wooden door rattled as a key entered the lock from the outside. It pushed open. Amber spun around to face the intruder, her heart in her throat and the knife pointed outward. Niall, the old steward, shuffled in, his worn plaid sagging below his belt. She huffed in relief and went back to cutting off her hair.

“You scared the life out of me, aye?”

“You should be scared, lass. I doona know how you’ve lasted this long with Laird Murray breathing down your neck. He’ll turn the keep upside down to find you.”

“I couldnae leave with Erin so sick, now could I? Her mother and father would ne’er recover if she died. And Ian needed me to speak for him or he would’ve ended up in the dungeon for who knows how long.”

“You’ll ne’er recover if the laird gets a hold of you—although you wouldnae end up in the dungeon. Nay, he’d lock you in his bedchamber first. And no doubt Father Odhran would consider it a just punishment for all the help you’ve given the women.”

“He’s a wee ablach, that one. The devil take him.”

“The devil take them both.”

Her knife cut through the last chunk of her hair and she held it in her hand, staring at it. The strands twisted and curled in long, silken waves, a last gift from her mother. Her father had loved her hair. Her grandmother had brushed it every night, singing the songs of the Highlands that Amber had so loved. Sorrow welled within her at the loss, and she squeezed her eyes shut to push it away.

Bah! Her hair had caused her nothing but trouble. How many times had she wished herself plain when some irritating man came knocking at her door, asking for her hand? Too many to count.

She tossed the curls down on the linen quilt, glad to be rid of them. She had no time for self-pity.

“Did you bring the lads’ clothes?” she asked. “And the band?”

“Aye.” He pulled some material from under his plaid.

Amber reached for the silver brooch that held her arisaid in place over her left breast, and released it. Niall squawked as her dress fell off, and he quickly turned around. “Lord have mercy, lass, I’m an old man. My heart willna survive looking upon the pride of Clan MacPherson in such a way.”

“Is that what they call me?” She tucked up her linen shift and shook out the tautly woven cloth Niall had tossed on the bed. “I thought ’twas ‘witch’ and ‘temptress.’ Sometimes ‘evildoer,’ depending on who did the talking.”

“Doona be daft. Only Laird Murray and his plague of rats say such things. The MacPhersons know the sacrifices you’ve made, the danger you’ve courted for us. We couldnae be more thankful.”

Amber didn’t speak—couldn’t speak—as his words washed over her. Her throat tightened and she had to blink back tears. Instead, she looked down and secured the end of the cloth over her breasts, trying to squash down the overripe mounds that had done naught but get in the way since they’d started jutting out from her chest when she was fourteen.

“Aye, neither could I,” she said finally, her voice sounding thick. “I’ll miss you all.” She lifted the end of the band trailing on the floor and held it out to Niall. “Here, hold this tight now while I wrap it.”

Niall grabbed it, eyes lowered, and held the cloth taut with surprising strength as she turned herself into it and knotted the band in place, flattening enough of her bust that the rest could still be concealed beneath the loose shirt. Her breath came short, her ribs compressed, but it was a strain she could bear. The bulk of the boy’s plaid should hide the slight tuck at her waist and roundness of her bottom. Her legs were long and strong, and if she muddied them they should pass for a lad’s. Her face too—although nothing could disguise the startling color of her eyes. Those were an inheritance from her beloved grandmother, and had led to much trouble for her as well as for Amber.

Men envied uncommon things, beautiful things, and would go to great lengths to acquire them. Luckily, the MacPhersons were good people, and Amber’s grandmother an excellent healer. She’d taught Amber everything she’d known before she died, and Amber’s place with the MacPhersons had been secure. They’d cherished her and she them.

Not so Laird Machar Murray. Nay, the conniving laird would as soon burn or drown her for a witch—as their good-for-naught priest wanted. After Murray tired of raping her.

Amber pulled the lad’s shirt over her head and tried to belt the plaid in place by herself. In the end, Niall had to show her how it should be done—a complicated ritual of pleating and tucking and twisting the material.

When she had finally mastered it on her own, Niall moved to a chest against the wall in the corner, and on his signal, Amber shoved the heavy piece of furniture to the side so he could crouch down and count the stones.

“This is it,” he said, pushing against the block while Amber waited impatiently beside him. Finally, a space appeared that was barely big enough for her to squeeze through. She grabbed a candle from the table and lit it in the fire before passing it through the dark hole in the wall. A dank passageway appeared ahead of her, just big enough for her to stand, and a narrow stairwell descended at the end.

“Are you sure it goes all the way down?” she asked. “When was it last used? Is it safe?”

“I doona know, lass, but anywhere is safer than here with Machar Murray.”

She nodded reluctantly, laid down the candle beside her, and pulled Niall into a tight hug. “I’ll miss you, you old badger. You’ve been a staunch friend to me, and to my grandmother before that. Our family wouldnae have survived this long without you.”

Niall squeezed her even tighter before pushing her away. “Go on with you, then. And doona even think of coming back. Go find a life for yourself away from the hell of this one. Marry a good man and have plenty of fine children.” He let go and lifted a bag from his shoulder. “Some food and coin until you find your new home.”

After she took it, he picked up the candle and handed it to her. “When you get to the end, the bottom stone should push out. I’ve already loosened it from the other side. The ground is muddy. Use some dirt to darken your bare skin, especially your face. There’s no hiding you’re a woman without that, even with your hair shorn.”

Amber nodded as he talked, trying to quell the panic that had tied her stomach into knots.

“Once you’re out of the keep, go to the east wall by the tanning hut. Look for a cart missing a wheel, with a rope attached. Throw the rope over the wall, then climb up the hay bales to the top. I’ve tethered a horse on the other side.”

Amber squeezed his arm, afraid to speak lest she start crying again, afraid to even look at him. He moved over, and she wedged herself through the hole. Once on the other side, she couldn’t resist and glanced back over her shoulder to see Niall’s face, wet with tears, one last time.

“Be safe,” he said, shoving the stone back in place and leaving her with only her candle for company.

* * *

Lachlan MacKay, laird of Clan MacKay, lay on his belly in the scrub, staring at the pockmarked and tumbling-down walls of the once-grand MacPherson castle. He’d counted fourteen places his men could breach the fortress, carefully noting the poorly planned circuits the guards walked on the perimeter, the easy footholds to get over the wall, the young, inexperienced men at the gate. There was even a horse grazing alongside the wall that anyone could use to hide behind.

Surely the crafty MacPherson laird, Machar Murray, would never be so careless, so lax in his defenses? It had taken Lachlan five years to identify and find Murray after he’d murdered Lachlan’s older brother and tried to murder Lachlan himself—in order to take over Clan MacKay. Murray had covered his tracks well, hiding behind silenced accomplices, false names, and convoluted trails.

So why would his home be so poorly protected? It would take Lachlan less than an hour to conquer the castle as it was. It didn’t make sense.

He turned to his foster brother, Callum MacLean, laird of Clan MacLean, who lay beside him on the slight rise. He watched the castle as well, his perceptive green eyes bright against the dirt he’d used to muddy his face and neck. He’d even smeared some of it into his short, dark hair.

“Do you think it’s a trap?” Lachlan asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe. I canna believe anyone would be so careless. But if it were a trap, there would only be one easy way in, two at the most. Not fifteen.”

“Fifteen? I only saw fourteen.”

“Aye. You always had trouble counting past ten.”

Lachlan snorted and resisted punching his foster brother in the shoulder. Callum would have expected it, of course, and most likely jumped out of arm’s reach, if they hadn’t been intent on staying hidden.

There were five of them that had been taught how to fight—how to lead—by the great Gregor MacLeod. Gregor had bonded the lads, all now lairds of their own clans, into a tight, cohesive unit, even if they did still like to provoke one another as often as they could.

’Twas a time-honored tradition, and both men were good at it.

“I doona need to count past ten; I’m not the one who left my betrothed behind tossing daggers and running wild in her castle. How many months has it been since you last saw Maggie? Almost forty? You can bet she’ll be counting every one of them. She may use those daggers on you when you finally decide to claim her. If she’ll still have you.”

“She’ll have me,” Callum grunted.

Satisfied, Lachlan went back to studying the castle, looking for the way in he’d missed. If Callum said another existed, then it did. His foster brother was an excellent strategist, with a sharp mind and eyes that saw everything. Except, of course, the identity of the traitor in his own clan—the reason he’d left Maggie behind for so long. He was afraid to bring her home with him while his father’s murderer was still loose.

“Ah, there it is,” Lachlan said, finally seeing the entrance. “The ditch they’ve dug under the wall. We can widen it, get at least one man through at a time.”

Callum nodded. “The ground’s still wet from last night’s rain. It should dig out easily and quietly.” He scanned from one end of the castle to the other. They’d been scouting all day and had already looked at the fortress from every angle. “Will you split the attack?”

“Aye. Four fronts: the gate to the north, over the top of the east and west walls just south of the keep, and through the ditch at the far end.” His jaw clenched; a surge of rage he’d been trying to contain pushed up from his belly. The emotion had been riding him hard the past fortnight—ever since he’d received confirmation that Machar Murray, laird of Clan MacPherson, was his brother’s killer. “I doona want to leave that bastard any way out. I’m going to gut him slowly for what he did to Donald.”

Lachlan would never forget the look of delight on his brother’s face that terrible day. He’d held up the fish he’d just caught in the loch, bragging that his catch, like everything else about him, was bigger than Lachlan’s. Lachlan had been laughing too. Then an arrow had pierced Donald’s chest from behind. He’d toppled to his knees in the boat. The delight. The laughter. Turning to pain and horror.

It had shredded Lachlan, but he hadn’t gone to help Donald as the archer expected. ’Twas a killing shot, and no good would have come of it. Instead, he’d dived into the water and swam as long and hard as he could, arrows hitting the water above him, some of them nicking and piercing his skin. When he surfaced and made it to the trees unseen, he returned to the castle, heartbroken and enraged, only to find Donald’s wife missing. After a thorough search, they found her at a secluded cottage, murdered along with one of her guards and her maid. She’d been killed in an intimate setting, a love nest, and Lachlan had determined she’d made a cuckold of Donald, most likely with the murderer, who had cleaned up his tracks after Lachlan survived the assassination attempt.

The very next day, Lachlan had assumed the unwanted mantle of Laird MacKay and begun his search for his brother’s murderer and would-be usurper.

Drumming his fingers on the ground, Lachlan tried to tamp down the memories and uncharacteristic burst of emotion, tried to think without the haze of fury that wanted to overwhelm him. He was so close to Machar Murray. “If it isna a trap, then what’s he thinking? Doesn’t he intend to keep the castle? The land?”

“I doona think so. ’Tis said he took the castle right after he murdered your brother. Maybe it was a fallback position for him.”

“He’ll fall back, all right. Under my sword. And anyone else in the clan who aided him.”

Callum laid a hand on his arm. “You’re too hot, Lachlan. Look at them. They’re not warriors—not even the guards. And Murray is a snake. He would have attacked the leaders in the clan from the dark, not a full-frontal assault. The MacPhersons may not even know he killed their old laird. I canna believe they supported him in the attack.” He shook his head. “I wish we had more information.”

“As do I, but I willna wait one more hour, Callum. The best way to kill a snake is to cut off its head before it strikes.”

“Aye, and you’d win for sure, but there’d be too many losses. Too many innocents caught between our forces and Murray’s. Gregor charged us to bring peace to the Highlands, not forge a bloody massacre.”

Lachlan knew it was true but still he didn’t want to hear it. When he’d received word that his brother’s killer had been found, he’d wanted to charge right in, sword swinging, arrows flying. Callum had been the voice of reason, nattering at his side, pulling on the reins as best he could. Lachlan had even tried to leave without him, but Callum had anticipated that move too. Bloody bastard.

Lachlan smashed his fist on the ground, wanted to spit in disgust. “Why haven’t the clan killed him themselves? The few reports we have say he’s not loved by the MacPhersons. What kind of people let a monster live?”

“What would you have them do? Should the cook have poisoned his food? The maid he’s tupping slit his throat, or the groom put a stone in his mount’s hoof? Most people doona have it in them to murder a man in cold blood.”

“The guards, then.”

“Look. At. Them,” he said again. “They’re not properly trained. Murray most likely killed all the seasoned warriors. We want to go in as soft as we can. Give the MacPhersons a chance to lay down their arms. We want them on our side. Besides, ’tis said their healer is a miracle worker. You know how upset Gregor will be if she’s harmed or turned against us.”

“Bah. She should have poisoned the demon the first chance she got.”

The light had waned considerably since they’d started scouting, and the shadows were almost full upon them. Movement atop the east wall caught Lachlan’s attention, and he strained to make out what it was. “Did you see that?” he asked.

Callum squinted. “Someone’s climbing over. A man by the looks of it. Maybe a lad.”

Whoever it was attempted to descend the outer wall using the rope but lost their grip and fell, landing in a heap at the bottom. The horse lifted its head and moved toward him, revealing a bridle attached around its neck.

“An escape, then. The horse wasn’t just grazing, it was placed there deliberately.” After rising, the man limped toward the horse, led it to a rock that had fallen from the wall, and used the stone to mount. “Must be just a boy if he doesn’t have the strength to pull himself up.”

Lachlan cursed as horse and rider turned in their direction. “Hell and damnation, he’s heading right for us.”

Callum glanced over his shoulder and looked at the tree line. They’d crawled forward on their bellies as close as possible to get a better look at Murray’s defenses. “We’ll ne’er make it back in time. We’ll have to wait, and pray the lad turns.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“I doona know, but we canna let him spot us and sound the alarm.”

“Aye. Watch the castle and see if the patrol notices him escaping while I get in position.” Lachlan edged forward until he lay in a small dip beside the trail and spread his dusty plaid over his body.

Callum also moved lower, his gaze searching for the perimeter guard. “Even if they doona see him, they’ll be sure to see the rope he used.”

“We’ll have to move fast. I’ll bring down the rider. You grab his horse and head for the trees.”

Lachlan studied the lad as he approached, rumpled and filthy with jagged, amber-colored hair that hung just past his chin. The horse kept slowing, a lazy, old nag, despite the lad trying to increase its speed with soft kicks to its belly and slap of the reins on its sides. The boy wasn’t much of a rider and the horse knew it, taking full advantage. If Lachlan were on its back, the nag would be running full tilt.

Waiting until the animal was almost past him, he jumped and dragged the lad from the horse, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other arm wrapped around his torso.

The lad screamed into Lachlan’s palm, more a high-pitched whine, and struggled to get away. Lachlan slammed him into the ground facedown and lay on top of him, hoping the guards hadn’t been looking in their direction. Ahead of him, Callum had pulled the horse down the rise and headed swiftly toward the trees.

The first thing Lachlan noticed was how determined his captive was, keeping up the fight when it was obvious he was defeated. The second thing he noticed was how soft he was.

The notion jolted him. Christ Almighty, where in hell had that come from? He hesitated, then rolled the lad beneath him to see a mud-covered face, hair sticking out in all directions and blood smeared below his nose. When he lifted his gaze to Lachlan’s, darkly lashed, violet-colored eyes stared up at him. Lachlan sucked in an audible breath at the sight—just as the boy bit down on Lachlan’s hand and smashed their foreheads together.

Lachlan cursed under his breath but didn’t let go, and they rolled to the bottom of the hill. He made sure he landed on top, his weight bearing down on the boy. Another time, Lachlan would have admired his determination, his resilience. Now it was just damned annoying.

’Twas obvious he was young and untrained in formal fighting, but he knew enough to go for Lachlan’s weak spots: eyes, hair, nose, fingers, and groin. And when he pinched the nerve on the inside of Lachlan’s elbow, Lachlan barely contained his bellow.

Flipping him over, Lachlan jammed his knee into the small of the lad’s back and pressed sharply on the vein below his ear, just long enough for him to weaken, before wedging a gag in his mouth and tying his hands together over his belly.

He roused seconds later as Lachlan finished.

“You’re done, lad,” Lachlan whispered in his ear. “You put up a good fight, but you’ll ne’er get out of those knots. We’re going to crawl to the tree line or I’ll drive a stake into the ground and leave you tied to it for the wild animals to eat. Do you understand?”

The lad nodded, fear and panic in his eyes as he looked at his captor, and for the first time, Lachlan felt bad for assaulting him. “I didn’t intend to hurt you, but you were riding right toward us and we canna be seen yet.” He tried to pat the boy’s hair in a reassuring manner and couldn’t help but notice how soft it was. When he realized he’d gone from patting his hair to running his fingers through it, he stopped, heat rising up his neck. “It looked like you were trying to escape the castle. Is that right?”

On the boy’s hesitant nod, he continued. “I’ll get you to safety and away from whoe’er is chasing you, but not till my forces have gone in undetected. That’s if you haven’t compromised our attack already. Now crawl for the tree line, keep your head and arse low, and make no sound!”

* * *

Amber used her knees to dig into the ground and push forward toward the trees, trying not to lift her bottom into the air. Every time she did, the large man with the muddied-up face would cover it with his big hand and shove it back down.

To “help” her, he’d grabbed her plaid between her shoulders and hauled her along beside him.

“Christ Almighty, lad,” he said as he squashed her bottom down yet again, “get your knees to the side, dig in with your elbows, and push with your feet. Have you ne’er crawled across the fields hunting game before? The quail and pheasants would see your arse waving in the air and be long gone before you could e’er shoot them. You wouldnae bring home any supper for your mother.”

He’d said all that in an exasperated whisper, and Amber grunted around her gag, her furrowed brow and angry eyes telling him exactly what she thought of him. Maybe if she’d been able to use her hands to help propel her body forward she wouldn’t have to lift her backside, but her wrists were still tied together.

Earlier, when the candle had blown out halfway along the hidden stairway in the keep, she’d known it would be a difficult escape. But she’d managed to make it to the end by feel alone and push the stone out of her way. The cart had been easy to find, and she’d made it to the top of the wall, only to fall as she climbed down the other side, twisting her ankle—another reason she was having a hard time crawling right now.

Still, that was naught compared to being dragged from her horse by the big, demented ape who’d loomed up from nowhere and practically killed her. When he’d pressed the side of her neck and almost knocked her out, she’d thought surely she was about to die. Only to rouse trussed up like a pig.

The worst part of it was that she thought he was enjoying himself. Aye, he’d liked fighting with her, dragging her about like a sack of oats.

Ignorant oaf.

His light-brown hair was pulled back in a leather tie, and his dark-blue eyes had laugh lines at the corners. She’d looked at his plaid, noting the blue-and-green weave, maybe from the dye of the blaeberry and heather, and tried to narrow down the region in which those plants grew abundantly.

He was neither a Murray, with their predominantly red plaid from the dye of the tormentil, nor a MacPherson, with their more colorful red, yellow, and blue plaid, with the added yellow dye from the bog myrtle. Perhaps he was a MacKenzie or a MacLeod—their plaids were both mostly blue and green, although why they’d be here, she had no idea.

When they finally reached the tree line, she sighed with relief. Her knees and ankle were sore beyond belief, her face scratched and bruised from being dragged through the brush, and there was dirt in her teeth. A few feet in, the man hauled her up and pulled her farther into the trees. A moment later, she saw three horses—two big, braw stallions and her smaller nag—held by a second man. He was as tall as her captor, both of them broad-shouldered, but this one slightly leaner and with a different plaid.

“Did he give you any trouble?” the second man asked.

“Aye, he almost took out my eye and near paralyzed my arm. Gregor would love to get ahold of him. I had to almost knock him out to get the ties on him.”

To Amber’s surprise, her assailant smiled as he spoke of her transgressions and looked almost…proud.

The second man stepped close and studied her face and eyes. She recognized his expression. She’d worn it many times when examining a sick child—concern. He was worried the pressure on her neck might have done permanent damage. She would have told him she was all right—just weakened—but she still had the gag in her mouth.

“He’s not hurt, Callum,” the first man said. She waited to hear his name too, hoping Callum would respond and say it, but her captor kept talking. “I squeezed just long enough to weaken him.”

“Aye,” Callum agreed. “His gaze is clear and bright. And would you look at the color of his eyes—not quite blue, yet not quite purple either. The lasses will be after you in droves soon, lad. Once you get the muck off your face. You doona smell poorly, so you mustn’t have been held for long. Is it the laird who’s after you?”

She hesitated, then nodded. ’Twas obvious they meant her no harm, other than what had already been done. But who was this Gregor and what would he want of her?

“Can we untie him?” Callum asked.

“Nay, not until we reach camp. He’s a right scrapper. He’ll make a break for it as soon as he can and head straight back to the MacPhersons now he knows we’re attacking, won’t you, lad?”

Amber was annoyed at his insight and tried not to let it show, but she obviously failed when he grunted and nodded.

“As I thought. All right, up with you, then.” He grabbed her waist, lifted her as if she weighed no more than a bairn, and placed her on the huge brown stallion with a black mane and tail. The beast barely moved, it was so well trained.

He pulled himself up behind her and urged the horse forward. Muscled and sinewy arms closed around her, and Amber found herself holding her breath. Her heart raced and her stomach fluttered as if a handful of butterflies were trapped inside.

And not out of fear. Nay, the strange thing was she felt safe with him, safer than she had in a long time—which made no sense as she was trussed-up, gagged, and his prisoner. He’d pulled her from her horse, almost knocked her out, dragged her through the brush, yet she felt no worry for herself, just for her clan.

If he meant to rape or kill her, he could have done so any time after entering the woods. Instead, he and this Callum had been almost gentle, even concerned for her welfare. She could trust him long enough to find out what he was planning to do next.

And why were they attacking the castle anyway? Did they want it for themselves, or were they warring with Machar Murray? She didn’t think the MacPhersons had a grudge against anyone other than Murray, who wasn’t really their laird. Naught could be proven, but she knew he’d murdered their old laird and his cousin, along with several of the experienced men of the clan. Including her father.

Somehow Murray had just taken over—living in the castle, giving orders, controlling the people. The only person he’d been afraid of was her grandmother, whom he thought a witch—a lie she’d encouraged, making good use of her knowledge of herbs, her irascible manner, and strange, vivid eyes. Amber’s eyes.

When she died, Amber had kept up the ruse, knowing Laird Murray would come for her if he thought her in any way vulnerable.

She sighed in frustration. There was naught she could do right now to escape, and the men were taking her farther away from the village and castle. If she could just get the MacPhersons out, she’d be more than happy to leave Murray and his band of thieves—for that’s what they really were—to be killed. The world would be a better place without Machar Murray in it. Father Odhran, the wee shite, too.

But there was no way she’d reach them in time.

The man gave her a squeeze. “We’re not looking to harm any but those who did us harm, lad. We’ll leave the village in peace, unless they hide Machar Murray from us.”

Which left the castle…and all the MacPhersons guarding it. And Niall—oh, dear God, Niall. Plus all the cooks, maids, stable hands, and the housekeeper. All of them innocent of any wrongdoing.

She knew it was futile, but she struggled again in earnest. The man cursed and squeezed her tight to his body, so she slammed her head backward. He’d anticipated her move this time, and she bashed into his hard chin. Lights burst behind her closed eyelids as pain thrummed in her head. His arm wrapped along her middle, his hand just above her elbow, and his fingers found the same nerve she’d pinched on him earlier. He pressed down on it—enough to get her attention but not enough to really hurt.

“Cease, lad. If you move, I’ll jab my thumb in—and you know what that feels like because you did it to me first. We’re almost there. When we arrive, I’ll take out the gag. You can yell and scream all you want. No one will hear you there.”

They cantered quickly along the river now, and Amber knew exactly where they were headed—the waterfall. Aye, her screams would go unnoticed once they were in its vicinity, close to the roar of the raging rapids and the splash of the water as it plummeted over the cliff.

A whistle sounded above them, and she glanced up to see a man in a pine tree, wearing a similar plaid as her captor. She scanned the other trees and saw more men, some wearing the same colors as Callum.

Whoever these men were, their forces had joined together against Machar Murray.

The roar of the falls started softly but picked up volume as they approached, the river beside them running fast and deep. The waterfall came into view as they rounded a large outcropping, the sound now loud enough she’d have to yell to be heard.

She knew the area well, had spent much time here as a lass, exploring the caves behind the falls and swimming in some of the calm pools created by the rocks. That’s not to say the river and falls weren’t dangerous—they were. It seemed almost every few years some poor child fell in and died. A few she had managed to save.

The horse picked up speed as it anticipated its dinner, jostling her and causing her captor’s thumb to dig in. When Amber jumped and yelped against the gag, he pulled his hand away. “Och, lad, I’m sorry. ’Twas an accident.” He pressed his palm against the stallion’s neck and commanded, “Easy, Saint.”

She glared at the man, shooting him full of imaginary daggers. Accident or not, the jab had hurt like hell. And she saw the way his eyes danced as he looked at her.

“I’m not laughing at your pain,” he said. “’Tis just you look so fierce—you are fierce—despite how wee you are. You’re determined, aye, but small. If you like, I’ll ask Gregor MacLeod to take you in. He’ll treat you fairly and teach you how to be a good man and a strong warrior. You couldnae choose a better laird.”

Gregor MacLeod? She knew that name. Everyone in the Highlands knew that name. His clan was large and prosperous and had several unbreakable alliances. She’d heard he’d fostered the sons of his enemies and raised them as his own sons. They were men now, and lairds of their own clans. ’Twas said they fought for all good people in the Highlands.

Could her attacker belong to one of those clans?

Horses and a few wagons were scattered about the clearings on either side of the waterfall. Some men cooked over low fires, others fletched arrows, still others practiced their fighting skills, using their hands and bodies as weapons. Other weapons were strapped to hips and down backs or leaned against rocks within close reach—swords, axes, stout poles. Even a huge hammer.

A fighting force of considerable size and skill by the looks of it—and well-armed. It would be a massacre against the untrained MacPherson men, and she felt bile rising in her stomach, burning away that momentary sense of safety. The people she loved, had cared for most of her life, were about to be annihilated.

A man strode toward them as they approached the waterfall. His old, puckered battle scars gave him a fearsome look, which only frightened her more. He gripped the horse’s bridle.

“Laird MacKay, your cousin’s here.”

The name startled her, and she glanced back at her captor. He was a laird? Laird MacKay? She knew that name too, one of Gregor MacLeod’s foster sons for sure. He didn’t look like a laird, with his dirty, scratched, and bruised face, dried blood under one eye, and a tear in his plaid. With a jolt, she realized she had done that, fighting with him when he’d pulled her from her horse. He even had twigs and leaves in his tangled hair, which had come loose from his leather tie to hang in messy waves almost to his shoulders. ’Twas longer than her own locks, now, and for the first time, she felt ashamed that her hair was a sawed-off mess.

“Airril?” he questioned. “What’s he doing here? Last I heard, he was in Inverness.”

The man hesitated. “Not Airril. Adaira.”

Laird MacKay stiffened and his face turned thunderous. “Adaira? How in God’s name did she get here?”

“She hid in the food cart, Laird, under the canvas. We found her about an hour ago. She ran and we trapped her up a tree. She’s not going anywhere.”

“Good. She can stay there for now.”

The laird dismounted, and Amber squeaked as she tumbled off after him. He caught her, keeping a firm grip on her arm as he marched them toward the waterfall. Callum fell in on her other side, the warrior next to Laird MacKay.

“Prepare the men, Hamish,” MacKay said. “We’ll attack in four groups—one at the gate to the north, two over the castle walls on the east and west side, and a smaller force from the back under a ditch. We’ll have to widen it so two men can crawl through at a time. We leave immediately.”

“Aye, Laird.” The warrior turned away and whistled sharply. Men dropped what they were doing, grabbed their weapons, and scrambled to meet with Hamish in the clearing. More warriors streamed out of the woods.

Callum leaned around her to speak to the laird. “Adaira’s stubborn, Lachlan. Doona start by yelling at her or she’ll dig her heels in.”

“She canna dig her heels in; she’s in a tree. And I’m going to leave her there.”

“Nay, you’re not. And doona threaten her with consequences you canna keep, because she’ll just push you to them.”

“So what should I say to her, then?”

“I doona know. She’s ten. Use your imagination. But whate’er you do, follow through.”

“I’ll do what Gregor did. He kept the five of us in line.”

“You canna.”

“Why e’er not?”

“She’s a lass!”

Amber scoffed behind her gag and rolled her eyes at the same time as Lachlan shot Callum an incredulous look. “Is that what you intend to tell Maggie when she’s tossing her knives at you for leaving her unwed for so long? ‘Put the daggers down, Wife. You’re a lass.’ Nay, I’ll make Adaira do what Gregor did to us—muck out the stalls, clean the chamber pots, and launder the clothes in the freezing loch during winter. After she’s run around the castle ten times. That’ll get her attention.”

Callum harrumphed, then said, “Maggie’s not my wife…yet.”

Amber stared at her captor. At Lachlan. She liked the name—Lachlan MacKay. It suited him somehow, even though she’d known him for less than an hour and had yet to speak to him with anything other than her eyes and body. Nay, he’d done all the talking as he’d dragged her along.

Idiot man.

They were about to walk through the waterfall to the caves behind, when she realized her face might be washed clean. She panicked, trying to back up. Both men gripped her arms and dragged her through the torrent of water. She ducked her head, hoping her hair would keep the deluge from her face. It soaked the back of her head instead, down her temples and neck. She gasped as the cold water struck her skin.

When she was through, she couldn’t help but stare at Lachlan in the flickering light from a torch that was mounted on the cave wall. He must have lifted his face up as he passed under to clean it, and the water streaked in muddy rivulets down his lean cheeks. She glanced at Callum to see that he had done the same.

They were both such braw men. Lachlan in particular appealed to her with his strong, scruff-covered jaw and his finely shaped lips, the lower one slightly fuller than the top one, his nose straight other than a small bump in the middle where it had obviously been broken. And she liked his eyes too.

Aye. She liked his eyes. Thickly lashed and dark blue—and staring hard at her face.

“How old are you, lad?” he asked in a low tone, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

Every hair on the back of her neck stood up. She felt something cold on her cheek and jumped as Callum’s knife sliced through her gag. Lachlan pulled it out and she coughed. When she looked back at him, he still hadn’t looked away.

“Um…fourteen,” she lied, her tongue thick and her mouth dry.

“And your name?”

She brought to mind one of the boys she knew and tried to slouch in the same manner as him. “Ian.”

“Are you a MacPherson, then?”

“Aye.” She glanced around nervously then back at Lachlan. His face looked carved in stone.

“What did Machar Murray want of you, lad? Did he touch you?”

Her eyebrows shot up as his meaning and harsh demeanor sank in. He was worried the laird had forced her into unwanted carnal acts.

“Nay. I…um…stole from him. A loaf of bread. My sister was hungry.” A true story on the real Ian’s part. That had led to Amber pleading for his life at the castle, which in turn had led to Amber having to run for her life tonight.

“And that’s all? How did you escape?”

“I had help. The steward, Niall, got me out. Many good people work at the castle, Laird MacKay, including the guards. They had no part in Machar Murray’s treachery. They doona deserve to die at the hands of your warriors.”

“And my men doona deserve to die either. If the MacPhersons fight back, they’ll be disabled, possibly killed. What would you have me do? Let my brother’s murderer live?”

“Nay, he’s killed many of my clan too, including my father. But the MacPhersons need help, not more death and destruction.”

“As do we all, but I canna promise you more than I already have.”

“Then find another way!”

“Nay, that’s impossible now. The guards will be on the alert, looking for you. Even if they haven’t realized you’ve gone, they’ll stumble o’er your rope sooner or later. We strike now and hope they havenae realized we’re coming, which means you’ll stay here until the castle is taken.”

He led her toward a second, smaller cave at the back of the cavern and passed her to another guard. “Keep him tied up, and doona underestimate him. He’ll run straight back to the MacPhersons and sound the alarm.”

“You canna leave me here!” she yelled. But he’d already turned away and headed toward the waterfall. “Come back, Lachlan, I need to tend to my people!” He ducked under the waterfall, Callum ahead of him.

Panic rose and took over her body. Her clan was in trouble and she wasn’t there to help. She ran after the men, but the guard held her back and tugged her farther into the cave, kicking and screaming.

“Lachlan MacKay! Come back!”