What could be worse than being left alone in a cave twenty feet in the air from the ocean’s surface at high tide with nothing but a few crates of dried goods to sustain a lass?

A fearsome Highlander.

Rosamond stared at the approaching longboat rowed by a man who made the small vessel look like a babe’s bathtub.

Dark tendrils of hair had come loose from the tie holding it in place behind his head, waving in front of his face, as though they meant to hide his eyes from her. A square jaw lined with the shadow of stubble gave him a hardened look, or perhaps that was the frown marring his brow and flattening his lips. Either way, he made a terrifying sight, and suddenly the bleakness of the cave seemed trivial compared to his impending arrival.

As he drew closer, her throat tightened. She gripped the side of the cave wall, unable to move from her spot, where she clutched at the dusty stones. Unable to sleep, she’d risen before dawn, only to come face to face with a ship looming in the moonlight. Her hopes had soared thinking perhaps her father had returned. That his punishment was only for a short time, meant to scare her into submission. But as the purple haze of pre-dawn lightened into a pink and orange, it had become clear the white-flagged ship was not her father, but someone else entirely. A fear that tripled when she’d seen the large man rowing her way.

His white shirt was in stark contrast to his dark hair, and he wore a belted plaid of deep green and yellow that fell back to reveal his knees and strong calves as he rowed. Leather boots were laced halfway up those calves. Boots that could squash any bug—or lady.

When he reached the base of the cliff, she leaned out to stare down at him, her eyes meeting his darkened gaze. He dropped a small, iron anchor into the sea, the splash making only the slightest sound, most of which was drowned out by the pounding of her heart.

The Highlander glanced up at her, his jaw set, and eyes hard. “Step back.”

“What?” she whispered, confused.

“Step back, else ye want a hook in your skull.” His voice was deep, gravelly, and thick with a Scottish brogue. At once, she was terrified and intrigued.

And then she saw what he meant. In his hand, he held a grappling hook, edges as sharp as daggers, and attached to it was a long, thick rope.

Rosamond held back a squeal. Who was this man? He had the look of a warrior. Hard and powerful. Shoulders as broad as his ship, and limbs longer than oars. A veritable giant passing himself off as a man.

’Haps her original idea of tossing herself to the sea would mete her out a better fate than this. She’d rather trust her future to the fishes than to this wild-eyed warrior.

Drawing in a strengthening breath, rather than move, as he’d demanded, she shouted, “Nay! Turn your skiff around. You are not welcome here.”

“Lass…” His voice softened some, and he glanced up at her with eyes filled with sorrow, though the hardness had not left his mouth. “Allow me to help ye.”

“I…” She chewed her lip. He was probably her only hope, if she were being honest with herself. Her father was not coming back anytime soon, and the next man to threaten a grappling hook hurtling toward her skull was likely wanting to put it there. Something about his eyes, the sorrow she’d seen there made her want to trust him. But she just couldn’t. She didn’t know him. Couldn’t trust him. “I do not need help.”

He let out a sigh, moving to untwine ropes. That was exactly the opposite of what he should be doing. He tested the weight, swinging it slightly. The Highlander was going to come up.

“Please go away. Leave me,” she called down, and then thinking twice, she added, “My father will be back any moment. He will not look kindly on you climbing up without consent.”

The warrior crossed his arms over his chest, standing in the skiff as if he were on dry land. The rope dangled over one arm, the hook swinging ominously near his knees. “Why are ye up there?” The calmness in his tone was startling, as if he asked her simply about the weather.

Well, the truth wouldn’t do as an answer. Might only have him climbing up faster than she could blink. Remaining steady and stern would be the only way to discourage his determination.

“Enjoying the view,” she said, managing to keep most hints of sarcasm from her words. “’Tis quite lovely, and that is not an invitation.”

“I see.” He turned to look back toward his ship. “She is lovely. She represents freedom.”

Rosamond looked toward the ship. Freedom. Hers or his? There was a starkness to his words that made it seem as though, for a moment, she could see right inside his troubled soul. And it left her curious, intensely so.

And then a striking thought occurred to her—he looked familiar.

“Are you the captain?” she asked. Where would she have known this man? ’Twas rare, however not unusual, to see Highlanders at Edward’s court. But she and the other lady’s maids did not associate with them. They were not allowed. Told the men were barbarians intent on taking their virtue.

“Nay. The Tower is captained by my friend.” His gaze flicked back toward her. “Come down and I will show ye the way to freedom.”

Rosamond ignored him, and instead leaned against the cave wall and crossed her arms over her chest, mirroring his stance—and showing him she had no intention of moving. “The Tower, ’tis an odd name for a ship.”

He grinned, for a moment, showing a flash of white teeth and a crinkle of his eyes. “And yet, so fitting.”

She stiffened. Was she badly misjudging this man? “How so? You have prisoners on board?”

He chuckled, a hint of sorrow returning to the creases of his face. “There was one.”

Rosamond swallowed. “And you seek another?”

“Nay.” He blew out a long breath. “I could never imprison another.”

Which meant, perhaps he’d kill them instead? Rosamond frowned. “I have nothing of value,” she called down, hoping, if he were in search of treasure, or had seen the crates her father delivered, perhaps he would believe her and simply leave.

“Everyone has something,” he replied, fiddling with the rope attacked to the grappling hook.

“Nothing you could want.” She uncrossed her arms and fisted her hands at her sides. “Please, leave me in peace.”

The warrior frowned, seeming to think for a moment, and then said, “Allow me the opportunity to assess for myself that ye are safe.”

She forced her groan to remain on the back of her throat. “I am. I swear. Go now.”

“I dinna like to put myself where I dinna belong, but I could not in good conscience leave ye to dwell in a cave with no means of escape. I know something of having no way out. Allow me to offer ye a chance at escape.”

“Who says I need to escape? I am no concern of yours.”

“Aye. None. Ye’re verra right, ye are.”

“Then why do you insist?”

“I could see your light upon the sea. And if I could see ye, then so could others. I am not a marauder. I have come to take ye to safety. I canna say the same of anyone else. I can sense it in the set of your shoulders, the timid, sharpness of your gaze. Ye are distressed, lass.”

How had he seen through her so easily? It was frightening. More frightening was the things he said about marauders and others wanting to do her harm. She should have known the torch she’d lit last night in order to see what was in the crates was a beacon to every scoundrel upon the sea. “But my father—”

“Pardon me saying so, lass, but I’ve yet to meet a man with good intentions that would leave his daughter to a fate so harsh.”

Oh, how his words stung with the truth of her situation. “He is returning.” And then she mumbled to herself, “When he recovers from his madness.”

Rosamond turned to stare at the three crates lining the walls. She’d had a chance to look through them. The few jugs of watered ale, packets of jerky, dried fruit and stale bread wouldn’t last her a week, let alone the month she guessed her father would be away.

John de Warenne had no intention of her surviving this penance. Not after he believed she’d be the downfall of all he’d achieved. And hadn’t she promised herself she’d escape?

A curse sounded from below, drawing her attention back. The warrior had started to climb the cliff face—without the grappling hook.

“What are you doing?” she shrieked. “Get back in your skiff before you fall.”

“If ye would step back, I will toss up my hook and then I shan’t have reason to fall.”

“If you would listen, you would not fall at all. You must return to your ship and leave me alone.”

“I canna leave ye, lass.” His voice was strained as he searched out hand and footholds in the rocks, and slowly rose up another few inches. “So, if ye willna move, kindly keep quiet so I can concentrate. These rocks are a bit slippery.”

Dear Heavens, he was serious.

Rosamond took several steps back, chewing on her nails as the muffled curses from below grew louder the closer he got to the top.

A weapon. She needed one, because he would clearly not be returning to his ship until after he’d come up and gotten what he came for—of which she could only pray was to check she was not harmed.

Which was not at all likely. A silly, naive girl’s fantasy, but one she’d hold onto. Even as she turned in search of a weapon. Wrenching open the crates, she tossed aside wool blankets and packets of jerky, loaves of bread until she found a leather bag holding a flint rock and steel. She wrapped her fingers around the items. Fire. The only thing she might be able to use to do the man harm.

The grunts and curses as he climbed continued, as she whirled in a circle trying to find a stack of wood she knew the men had also brought. The logs were massive, even the smallest she’d have to lift with both hands. But no, matter. Two hands waving a fiery log would surely do more damage than one.

Rosamond knelt and struck the flint over and over against the steel until the sparks lit upon the wood and caught fire. Her heart pounded and nausea roiled in her gut. As she’d witnessed servants at the castle doing, she gently blew on the flames until they grew. Picking up the end that was not aflame, she whirled toward the mouth of the cave, arms extended. The fiery log let off a good amount of heat toward her face. Still, she waited, unmoving.

The waiting wasn’t long. A few moments later, large hands slapped onto the cave floor and the man hoisted himself, seemingly without effort, into the cave.

“Zounds,” Rosamond muttered.

She’d never seen anything more terrifying. The warrior was taller than she’d thought. Easily a head or two more than herself. The top of his scalp scraped against the roof of the cave. He placed his hands on his narrow hips, wide chest rising and falling as he worked to catch his heightened breath.

Nodding at the log in her hands, he said, “What do ye intend to do with that, lass? Might want to set it down, afore the embers catch your gown afire.” Though his words were spoken calmly, his face held no trace of serenity, in fact he looked agitated beyond belief. Tense. Deadly.

Rosamond waved it toward him, her feet locked in place. “I told you not to come up here. To leave me be.”

“Else ye would set yourself afire to force my hand?”

“Nay, you stubborn goat, I would set you aflame.” She waved it again, narrowly avoiding a spark on her arm as he’d warned. She sucked in a weary breath, as the flames licked closer to her fingers. Still, she couldn’t let go. Couldn’t simply drop the only means she had to keep him away from her.

“Name’s Tierney MacDougall, lass. I swear on my mother’s grave, I’ll do ye no harm.” He held out a steady hand, as though calming a bedeviled mount. It was then she noticed the scarring on his wrists, wrapping all the way around, as if he’d been shackled for all his life. “Put the fire down.”

She jerked her gaze away from his wrists and back to his face. “Why will you not go away?” Tears of frustration pricked her eyes. Nay, no crying! Not anymore. She’d sobbed her way through the night and still had the headache to prove it. Letting this stranger see the proof of her misery was out of the question.

“I told ye, I came to see ye to safety.”

“How could you know I’m not safe?”

“Are ye?” He glanced at her crates, at the pitiful pile of wool she’d slept on the night before. Luckily, he did not lay witness to the bucket she had stashed in the very rear of the cave for those times she needed more privacy.

Rosamond blinked, the heat from the flames starting to dry out her eyes. Before she could answer, an ember sparked from the log and landed on the cuff of her gown, quickly singeing through to the skin of her wrist and bursting into flames.

She screamed and dropped the log at her feet, which only caused flames to light at her hem, hot, orange limbs slithered up her gown.

Within seconds, the warrior was on her, tackling her to the cave floor. He placed his entire palm over the flames at her wrist first and then worked quickly to smother the flames at her hem. He did not wince or curse at the pain the flames had to have caused, as though he were immortal.

Rosamond wanted to cry now. From the pain in her burned wrist. From the fear of burning alive. The fear of a stranger being here in her imprisonment. Fear that her father meant to truly abandon her forever.

“Why did ye not listen?” he muttered under his breath.

“I…” Then she burst into tears, tugging her wounded wrist from his grasp where he examined her.

“Hush, ye dinna have to answer. I didna mean to yell at ye.” Gently he pried her wrist back, and moved the scorched fabric away. “Ye’ve got a decent burn, but it could have been worse.” Dark eyes met hers, and he said calmly, “Allow me to tend ye, lass.”

Rosamond nodded, blinking away her tears and praying she would remain conscious. The emotional turmoil of the last day had drained her wholly.

Tierney MacDougall gripped his sleeve and tore it clear off, revealing a long, muscular arm and drawing her mind momentarily from her injury to his pure strength. And then back to his scarred wrist. The other was the same. She almost reached out to touch him, but her arms were suddenly very heavy.

He used his teeth to rip the sleeve into strips. Glancing at the cave wall, he touched the places where red seeped through the stones. “This will soothe your wounds. Acts as an agent to reduce pain as well, love. Hold still.”

She hissed in pain as he gently rubbed the red element onto her skin. Bracing herself with her unwounded hand against the wall, she breathed in deep, working to keep herself awake as he rubbed more and more of the red substance onto her wounds.

The dire truth hurt. She was not going to survive this penance her father forced on her. And here was a chance to leave. Tierney might be a complete stranger to her, but he was the only one here. He’d tended her wounds, had said he wanted to help her. What other choice did she have?

As he reached to swipe more of the red grime from the wall, she placed her hand over his and flattened it to the red surface. A spark shot up her arm, and she could sense the same shock had flooded him. Tierney’s gaze met hers, his face grim.

“Take me with you, please,” she said, before falling back in a faint.