The taste of the sea-salt air was heaven. Bloody hell. Though Tierney had imagined countless times seeing the outside of the Tower of London, there were many days over the previous ten years that he’d been certain he would not.

How many times had he dreamt of this exact moment? Well, this, and, the moment he could pound John de Warenne into the dirt. Seeking vengeance on the man who’d arrested him and taken him to the Tower all those years ago would have to wait for the field of battle. That was, if the bloody fool sot even had the ballocks to face him. ’Twas all well and good to torment a man in chains, but to face him with death on the line, was another matter entirely.

Hands braced on the bow, Tierney breathed deeply of the fresh, free air and then turned to face the crew of MacDougalls who’d come to fetch him.

Men he’d not seen since he was in the fresh dawn of manhood. Men of his clan who’d had to fight alongside his sire, forced to betray what they truly believed in—Scotland’s freedom from England. They’d lost their lands, their leader, and a lot of their faith.

Tierney wasn’t certain he could give them back their land or their faith, but as their leader, he was going to damn well try. ’Twas only with the death of his father that he had been set free. Edward II needed another MacDougall laird on his side. Tierney had lied straight to the blackguard’s face and then held out his shackled wrists demanding to be let go. How easily the lies had slipped from his lips. How effortless it had been to convince everyone he was still an English pawn.

They’d left London on horseback two days ago, and were now sailing through the English Channel, around Cornwall toward the Celtic Sea. From there, they’d ride the winds up the channels until he finally reached Oban and Dunstaffnage. The castle of his youth. And he’d have to reclaim it. He’d have to tell his men they would no longer be supporters of the English invasion, but that they would now be claiming loyalty to Robert the Bruce, the rightful king.

Home. Scotland. Once they moored he was going to kiss the bloody earth and drink of her sweet scent, like a long lost lover come home.

And he’d never stray again.

Och, bloody hell! He’d never strayed to begin with.

Tierney was wrought with guilt over his clan fighting against the Bruce. Siding with the English had been their downfall. Just as he’d known all along. ’Twas just bloody damn wrong to fight against one’s own king. Indeed, two years after Tierney’s incarceration, the Bruce had sacked Dunstaffnage and taken it under the crown’s wing. Now, the MacDonalds were in possession of it and had given a stewardship to the MacArthurs.

Two powerful clans and a king separated him from what was his. But he would prove that he was loyal to the Scots, English be damned. And his men had better bloody well get behind him.

A burning sensation churned in his gut. How he loathed the incompetent King Edward II. His father had been a cruel, evil schemer, but his son had to be ten times worse, for he had something to prove—or rather, disprove. Most people believed Edward to be a fool, a weakling, and a simpering fop. Most people would be right, but that only made the foolish king more violent.

The only reason Tierney had been released was because Edward wanted him to return to Scotland as a spy. To continue to turn tail against his people. To bring the Scots to their knees. Well, that was not going to happen.

It had been his father, Ewan MacDougall, who’d formed an alliance with the English, an alliance Tierney was about to break. He did not believe in betraying his countrymen. The bloodshed had to stop, and he wasn’t going to be a part of it anymore.

“You look well for being locked in a cage these past ten years.” Sir Samuel de Mowbray leaned against the bow, looking out at the sea. “Never thought we’d see you again.”

Samuel and Tierney had met a couple years before Tierney was taken prisoner. The man was working in league with the Scots against his own people, though the English weren’t aware of it. Tierney might have looked down on the man for it, except the knight was more Scots at heart than anything else. He’d married the much sought after Buchanan lass, and helped aid the Bruce time and again. Two of his sisters were married to Sutherlands. And after a dozen or more years of success at what he did, the man didn’t appear to be slowing down.

“Never thought I’d see your ugly mug either, old friend.” Tierney slapped Samuel on the back. Samuel was easily ten years Tierney’s senior, but that didn’t matter. They’d fought side by side against the English, before Tierney’s father turned traitor, and he prayed they’d do so again. “Why did ye come for me?”

Samuel grunted. “Because, good King Edward asked me to. And the Bruce thought it a good idea to go along with it. He wants to know where your loyalties lie.”

Tierney crossed his arms over his chest, kept muscular from having maintained a steady regimen inside his cell over the years. When there was nothing else to do, a man could be very inventive. “Ye dinna trust me.”

Samuel studied him then, regarding him with a scrutiny he’d received many times in the Tower of London and the few times he’d been brought to court as an “honored” guest. More like a bloody sideshow, and always a test to see if he was willing to turn tail like his father. Not until recently had he agreed to be a traitor, when he saw the end in sight and a plan had formulated in his mind. He’d lied, agreeing with his enemy’s terms, and now had the means to start a revolution.

“Do you trust me, MacDougall?” Samuel crossed his arms over his chest and raised a challenging brow.

Tierney thought about it for many moments. He’d trusted Samuel in the past. Knew the Bruce and many powerful clan leaders did. Why shouldn’t he? “Aye.”

“Why?” Samuel’s expression never changed, his eyes remaining locked on Tierney. Damn, but the gent was good at what he did. Studying and never revealing a bloody thing.

Tierney said the first honest thing that came to his mind. “Ye’ve never given me cause not to.”

“And have you given me cause?”

Tierney snorted. “My father sided with the English. By default, I am seen as a traitor to my people. My castle and lands were taken by the Bruce. I was imprisoned for the past ten years, probably seen as unstable. I was only let go because I agreed to give my allegiance to the English. Nobody knows me anymore. Maybe I am a traitor.”

Samuel snorted, the first sign of emotion from the man. “Do you recall the moment when your father told you what his plans were?”

Tierney scowled, thinking back on that dark day. They’d been on the battlefield, in ranks with the Bruce’s men and the other joined clans. About to take part in a confrontation.

In the winter of the year of our lord, 1306, February to be precise, the Bruce murdered Tierney’s stepmother’s nephew, John Comyn III, “Red Comyn,” on the altar at Greyfriars. ’Twas a bloody, nasty affair. The men who stood behind Bruce knew he’d had to do it, because Comyn posed too much of a threat, but those who waffled, those who couldn’t get behind the brutality of it, they turned to the English and the soiled coin that followed. A month after the murder, the Bruce was crowned King of Scotland. And that summer, Tierney’s father, having listened to the lamentations of his new wife and family over the brutal murder of their beloved Comyn, agreed to go to battle against the Bruce. But it was a surprise attack—and it wasn’t until the battle cries rent the air that Ewan MacDougall let his son know they’d switched sides. “The Battle of Dalrigh, aye.”

“Aye.” Samuel nodded curtly, waiting.

“The Bruce’s forces had already taken quite a beating at the Battle of Methven,” Tierney mused, remembering the bedraggled forces and how shocked they’d been to find out half the army behind them was no longer on their side, but ready and willing to strike them down.

“And you saved the Bruce’s life.”

“I was severely punished for it, too.” Tierney gazed out hard at the sea, remembering how he’d leapt in front of a killing blow that should have left the Bruce cleaved in two. Instead, Tierney had barely escaped with his own life, but it had given Robert the Bruce enough time to escape. “And I’d do it again.”

“You see, that is how I know I can trust you. Because even when you were on the opposite side of right, you could not let your king be killed. You defied duty to your father, to your clan, risked your life in order to save our king.”

And then his father had reported just that to Edward Longshanks, Hammer of the Scots, father of the current English king. Before Tierney had recovered from his battle wounds, English forces had barged into Dunstaffnage, John de Warenne at their lead. Tierney had been arrested and dragged half dead all the way to London where he’d been tossed in the Tower. With having less than a sennight of freedom so far, he still expected that he might be executed on the morrow.

Tierney had saved his king and been named a traitor for it. Because he’d dared to defy the English king. Because he’d dared to defy his father.

Oh, how he’d brooded and plotted when he lay on the dirty, rat-infested floor of his cell.

He’d had night terror after night terror, fearing what, if any, future he might claim. His father had looked on him with such disgust. Such disappointment. No doubt, the sons Tierney’s father had borne with his second wife had given him infinitely more pleasure than Tierney himself. Those sons would still be lads today, and wouldn’t be a problem for Tierney in taking back what was his now that Ewan MacDougall was gone. Tierney was the rightful laird; he just had to prove to the Bruce he was loyal.

“Where are Lady MacDougall and my half-brothers?” Tierney asked.

“At Gylen Castle.”

The castle was a MacDougall holding, located on the Isle of Kerrera, with a channel that led right to Dunstaffnage.

“She claims you were disowned, that the title and lands belong to her eldest son, Ewan, named for your father. But since she is a Comyn, the MacArthurs are not of a mind to let her into Dunstaffnage.”

Tierney grunted. “And rightly so. She’d likely invite the English in to take it back.” He paused, letting all this sink in. “Ye think the Bruce will give me the chance to prove myself?”

“That is why he sent me to fetch you. He never forgets a favor, or a man who’s saved his life.”

What a relief to hear. Half the battle of regaining what was lost, of putting his sword into the rebellion was gaining the trust of his rightful king. “Good. And my lands?”

“Likely there will be something you must do to gain them back. The MacArthurs are quite cozy with the MacDonalds having given them stewardship, and you know as well as I do that MacDonald is not likely willing to give up lands and coin.”

Another challenge. “The MacDonalds are a force to be reckoned with.”

“Aye.”

“They will make me pay a hefty price, or we will come to blows.”

“Likely.”

Tierney chewed on that for a moment. “And the Bruce? Who will he back?”

“Whoever has the most coin and the best sword arm.”

Tierney grunted. “MacDonald has more coin, and given I’ve been without a sword these last ten years, he likely has the brawn as well.”

“Aye. You have your work cut out for you, my friend. ’Twill not be easy.”

Tierney let out a heavy sigh. “I thank ye. I have survived worse.”

“Aside from imprisonment?”

Tierney nodded. “The wounds I took at Dalrigh were nothing compared to Longshanks’ torture chamber. The cell was a welcomed reprieve to the deep darkness he preferred I remained chained in.” He shuddered to remember the awful things they’d done. Bloody hell, but he had the scars to prove it.

“I believe in you, Tierney. You’ve got the backing of your people, and the Buchanans, Sutherlands, Morays and Sinclairs. The Bruce wants you back.”

“And my enemies are the Comyns and the English.”

“Aye.” Samuel chuckled. “Mayhap you ought to have brought back some of those instruments of torture.” His words were meant in jest, but Tierney could find no humor in them.

Tierney’s mood darkened as memories faded in and out, running his blood cold and leaving a chill on his spine as though the devil were on his back. “I’d not wish that on any man.”

“Apologies. I did not mean to make light of your situation. In the meantime, how about a nice dram of whisky?” Samuel’s tone had lightened considerably as he changed the subject.

Appreciating the distraction, Tierney asked, “Uisge-beatha? I’ve not had any in a long time, my friend.”

Tierney followed Samuel to mid-ship. They descended a flight of long, narrow steps that led down a passageway to the captain’s quarters. “Your ship?”

“Nay. Loch Lomond is mighty, but there is no way out of it, save a trickling burn here and there. You can barely get a small skiff through the waterways, let alone a galley, and if you’re even that lucky, the water ends before you get anywhere. When we need to leave Castle Buchanan, we ride. This ship belongs to a friend I’ve made, MacLeod. He’s plenty of galleys at his disposal. His business is of a slightly unsavory sort, but alas, sometimes unsavory is necessary. This is one of his clandestine vessels. Vessel’s name changes with whoever is on board. Did you see this one is called The Tower?” Samuel uncorked a jug of uisge-beatha, the scent of the liquor rising from the open neck.

“’Tis mighty generous of him to lend it to ye.” Tierney chuckled and took the offered pewter cup. “To The Tower, and MacLeod.”

“To the MacDougalls returning to Scotland.”

Not all of the MacDougalls had left Scotland, but Tierney understood what Samuel meant. They would be returning to Scotland’s breast, becoming true supporters of their king. No longer traitors and turncoats.

Tierney drank deeply of the whisky, relishing the burn as the spicy spirits made their path down his throat to his eager belly. Damnation, but it had been ages since he’d had a good drink. Dirty water, sour wine or ale, piss, all sorts of disgusting things had been given to him over the years. Except when he was invited to court. While there, he was offered the finest wines along with the other guests, but to partake too much—well, he’d learned his lesson the first time. Intoxicated and full of bravado, he’d attempted to escape. The subsequent beating by de Warenne had him walking with a limp for months, and even now when storm clouds raged.

They drank half the jug before one of the swabs brought them a thick venison stew. After they ate, Tierney stood and told Samuel he needed some time to think. He climbed back up to the deck and walked to the bow, staring up at the darkened sky. Thousands of twinkling lights shined down on him, reminding him of the gift of freedom he’d been given. He breathed deeply of the air, letting it fill his lungs, expanding his chest, where he held it until it burned, and then he blew it all out, only to repeat the process. ’Twas cleansing in a way, lightening the stiffness in his shoulders and the strain behind his eyes.

The wind blew in short bursts, rustling the wide white sails of their ship, the moonlight making them shine with a certain glow. They were nearing the Cornwall coast; at least that was what he’d heard a few of the deckhands saying as they fiddled with the ropes on the ship’s sails.

Close enough to the coast they were, he could see lights shining from a village at the top of some cliffs, and then a short distance later, a light shone from the cliff’s center.

He leaned over the helm, as if doing so would give him a closer look, but he didn’t see much more than the side of the cliff glowing. There were no cottages there. To live on the side of the sheer cliff would be too dangerous, even for a goat. Approaching the helm, he picked up the spyglass telescope, extended the shaft and gazed through it.

The glowing light enlarged now through the lens. “What in the bloody hell?” he murmured, certain the form glowing in the candlelight was that of a woman. Curves and long flowing hair. Or was it an apparition? A ghost? A fairy? Some other mythological creature? Perhaps the whisky? It had been a long time since he’d indulged…

“What is it?” Samuel asked beside him, startling him.

Tierney shook his head, squinting into the spyglass. “I think ’tis a woman.”

“A woman? On the side of the cliff? Impossible. The whisky is playing with your mind.” Samuel took the spyglass and looked through, breathing in a sharp gasp. “You’re right, looks like a woman.”

“Aye. Unless the whisky has affected ye, too. What is she doing there?”

“I do not know.” As they sailed closer, it became clearer the woman was there, and alone. But how in the world had she gotten there, and why?

“Settle the anchor. I’ll row out and climb up to see if she’s all right,” Tierney said.

Samuel shook his head. “I’ve strict orders to get you back to Scotland. These waters aren’t safe at night. If I let you go, there is a very real possibility you’ll not come back. ‘Sides, mayhap she wants to be there.”

“I’ll come back, I’m not so deep in my cups. And ’haps she does not wish to be. There doesna look to be a way in or out.” Anger shot up Tierney’s spine as he was brought to mind of the many years he’d spent in captivity. No way in or out. No way to escape. The only hope he’d had was to survive the torment and pray someone would have mercy on him. Was she now wishing the very same thing?

Samuel frowned. “Are you thinking it’s a prison?”

“Aye. Pirates?”

“Or maybe the English.”

“I canna leave her, Samuel.” Tierney looked out over the water, sparkling from the reflection of the stars, feeling more attached to this helpless woman than anyone else, and he didn’t even know her. But something deep inside pushed him to save her. Perhaps symbolically saving himself. “Doesna feel right in my gut.”

Samuel heaved a sigh. “Mine either. We’ll lay anchor and at dawn, you can row out. ’Tis too dangerous to do so at night.”

While Tierney hated to leave the lass to languish overnight, there was no other option. “All right.”

Tierney didn’t sleep that night, but kept watch on the cave, determined that if anyone sailed by or climbed down or up, he would drop the skiff to the water with or without Samuel’s agreement. He didn’t know why he felt so strongly about going to her. Perhaps it was a test of his strength. A test of his honor. For so long he’d been cooped up inside the Tower, watching helplessly as people were tormented around him, as he himself was forced to suffer. From now on, he only wanted to be the protector of others. The defender of the weak.

Saving a woman imprisoned on the side of the cliff, as farfetched as a tale such as that seemed, would be his first step. And if she wasn’t imprisoned. If perhaps, that was her dwelling and there was a way up to the top of the village, he would give her leave to tell him to go. And he would do so with apologies. But something in his gut told him that she was in trouble, and he could not leave her there to languish.

As soon as the first edge of purple lightened the horizon, he was at the skiff, lowering the ropes that brought it to the water.

Today was the beginning of a new life. Tierney MacDougall—guardian of the vulnerable.

“You’re going to need this.” Samuel held toward him a grappling hook attached to a long rope. “And this.” A sword and baldric.

“My thanks.” Tierney held the sword in his hand, his fingers curling around the hilt. Saints, but it had been forever since he’d held a weapon in his hands. But he’d never forget the feel of its weight, the strength of his power. He strapped the baldric to his back, settling the sword in the sheath, then looped the rope of the grappling hook around his belt.

Samuel nodded at him. “Godspeed.”