Bracadale, Isle of Skye, 1604

Tugging at her hair, Sheona’s fingers moved furiously to hide her braid. Tucking it beneath her cloak, she left the cottage where the brush had grown over the old doorway in back. Her eyes burned from the smoke. Screams filled the air. Sheona pushed gnarled branches away with trembling hands until she found the stone wall, stopping to catch her breath and quell the fire in her chest.

They had attacked hard and fast this time, leaving no chance for the poor souls imprisoned in the fiery tombs they once called homes. Swords clanged and men shouted. No one appeared to notice her creeping along behind the wall. The old midwife she’d come to heal had died before her arrival. Sheona had been in the village and away from the protection of the castle only moments before the fighting began.

The MacDonalds had been warring with the MacLeods for years. But recently, the attacks on both sides had become more frequent and ferocious.

Sheona scanned the area. A root cellar was several dozen yards away, its door open. She dashed toward it, stumbling only once. Climbing inside, she closed the door and bolted it, praying no one had seen her.

She listened for sounds outside the cellar, some sign of retreat. A noise somewhere behind her drew the hairs on the back of her neck to rapt attention.

A single puff of breath.

A second.

Feet shuffled in the dirt, spreading a sick burn through her belly.

She was not alone.

Powerful arms engulfed her, squeezing tight and forcing the air from her lungs. The body behind her was huge!

“Do not scream,” a male voice whispered in her ear.

She couldn’t if she wanted to. Terror churned inside her, twisting until she was sure it would strangle her.

He turned and pressed her against the cold stone wall, securing her hands above her head. His free hand explored her back, her waist, and her hip. Somewhere between exploring her hip and the inside of her thigh she stopped breathing.

“What do we have here?”

Her mind searched for an appropriate answer, but her tongue was firmly lodged in her mouth.

“Are you mute, lass? Well then, no one will hear you scream.” His breath was hot as he whispered the words, fanning her hair.

Now that his arms did not pin her, her head felt light as air rushed back into her body. She needed to say something, try to reason with him, plead even. Above all, she could not tell him who she really was, or else she would surely find his blade across her throat.

“M—my name is Maggie. I’m the blacksmith’s daughter. Please, my father will give you everything we own if you do not harm me.”

He chuckled. “Maggie, is it? Well, Maggie, my name is Malcolm MacDonald, son of the chief and Lord of the Isles. As long as you do not have a dagger tucked under those skirts, you will come to no harm in my presence.”

“And how long will I be in your presence?” She trembled, hating herself for her fear.

“As long as I choose it. Though ’tis dark in here, you have a bonnie figure and may serve a purpose on the long journey home.”

Her trembling turned into a full on shudder. She did indeed have a blade strapped to the inside of her thigh—the one he hadn’t felt. She would drive it through her own heart before she let this beast, or anyone else, force his pleasure on her.

MacDonald gripped her shoulders and turned her toward the door. “Open it.”

She fumbled with the latch until it gave and then pushed the door wide. The bright sunlight was temporarily blinding and she blinked several times before her eyes readjusted to the massacre. She sobbed as MacDonald pushed her out of the cellar and toward the invaders who had gathered on the far side of the village.

Sheona tried not to lose her stomach when she caught sight of charred bodies. The stench of burning flesh was more than she could bear. Though the feud between their clans had been waging for generations, the recent brutality was more than could justify the cause. She wondered if either side remembered what had started it in the first place. Surely no injury to person or property could be so great to warrant this kind of senseless carnage.

The large hand on her shoulder steered her through the village to the fore of a large beast. The next thing she knew she was astride the charger with her captor sitting behind her. Though she shouldn’t have, Sheona couldn’t resist the compulsion to look around. There was very little left of the village she’d visited so often in her eighteen summers. She could see only a few townsfolk being rounded up and tied to a rope to be led away as prisoners of the MacDonald—the most evil spawn in the land. The man sitting behind her was his son and that meant, as a MacLeod and daughter of their fiercest enemy, she would be considered a handsome prize.

She cursed herself for her stupidity. She knew better than to travel outside the castle walls alone, but had been so concerned for the midwife’s health, she tore off without a thought for her own safety. Now she was in the hands of the worst lot possible.

When she turned back to the party of MacDonalds, she noticed many of them staring at her. Dread crept inside her heart. Was the man behind her serious when he’d said her bonnie figure would serve a purpose? Did he mean for her to service all of them? How on earth would she survive it?

MacDonald’s hands grasped the reins and tugged so that his destrier turned to face his men. When he was in position, he pulled her cloak all the way down from her head so that her face was fully visible.

She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, determined not to weep in front of them and let them claim her fear as well as her body.

“This one is mine!” His voice thundered over the crowd. “You may look at her only with my blade in your belly.”

She was his? It was certainly a better prospect than being theirs, but still, she didn’t want to be anyone’s!

Something welled from deep within, born from fear or frustration or some other unnamed emotion, she did not know. But she had to speak up, had to tell him she would not accept this fate without pushing back as hard as she could.

“I am the property of no man, my lord.” She was careful to keep her voice low so that only he could hear.

Her words were met with a chuckle. “You will fight me, lass? So be it.”

MacDonald released a rein and turned her head so she must meet his gaze. What met her eyes was a shock that sent a jolt straight through her. An angry red scar sliced through an otherwise angelic face. Cold blue eyes bore into hers and the hard determination in his gaze made her gasp. The contrast between his sensual mouth, thick flaxen hair, and firm jaw and the viciousness of the crimson slash across his face made her wonder if it was a good representation of the duality of his character.

“Do I frighten you?”

“No.”

His features changed. His brows drew up for a moment, as though he’d expected a different answer. But a second later, the hardness was back and he grimaced.

“I will.”

He released her face, grabbed the reins and kicked his horse’s side hard. They lurched forward and, within minutes, had left the village. The morning was bright and sunny despite the events around her—would she live to see another?

* * *

Malcolm looked down at the top of the lass’s head. There was no way she was a smithy’s daughter, considering the quality of her gown was far better than a mere tradesman could afford. He knew enough about the clothes he’d removed from the various women in his life to know the difference. Hers was definitely high quality, clean too, and smelling of lavender.

So who was she then? Common village wenches didn’t often wear lady’s gowns or take scented baths. The essence coming from her hair and skin, even now, was captivating. Almost as much as her delicious body. Discovering the bonniest of any lass he’d ever encountered running into the root cellar made that mundane chore of exploring it for arms quite a pleasure. He had to admit, at least to himself, as he took his time checking her for weapons, those lush breasts of hers could surely hide a dagger if she chose.

But there was more. She’d hesitated when he asked who she was. Was she hiding her identity and if so, why? Who could be important enough? He was determined to find out all her secrets before their time was over. She’d stirred something in him he’d never felt before; a deep rushing need to learn more.

All he ever wanted from a woman was to bed her and move on. This one, whom he’d only just met, intrigued him—of course he still wanted to bed her, more urgently with each passing second.

Tension rolled off her body in waves. He had wanted to see if his scar would frighten her, as it usually did most people upon first meetings. When she displayed courage instead, he’d been surprised. Had she seen much battle? How far would he have to push her to get the answers he sought?

He leaned down until his mouth was by her ear. “Who are you, lass?”

She jumped at his first word. “I already told you. My name is Meg and I’m the blacksmith’s daughter. No one of consequence.”

“Is that so? Hmmm. Interesting.”

He waited to see if she would take the bait. She’d just confirmed she had lied before and he waited to see if she would realize her mistake.

“Interesting how so, my lord?”

“You are a terrible liar, Maggie-Meg.”

Her back went rigid.

Malcolm smiled. Caught.

“Tell me your real name.”

“I have already told you who I am. My name is Maggie, but some call me Meg. You have chosen to think I am lying and I cannot change that.”

His smile grew. As did other parts of him. Something told him he would thoroughly enjoy this game and the longer she held out, the more he’d enjoy it.

“Have it your way, lass. But I will find out exactly what I want to know about you sooner or later.” He pulled her hair away from her neck and smelled her. “And the longer you hold out, the harder it will be on you, I promise.”

“P-please, my lord. I am not accustomed to such treatment.”

“I thought you said I didn’t frighten you?”

“You do not.”

“Then why do you tremble?”

“I am cold.”

“You really are a terrible liar. But no matter. I will learn your secrets before this journey is through.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“You are coming home with me to Knock Castle. And if you do not tell me exactly who you really are before we arrive, I assure you, my father will demand the truth. He is not so patient as I am.”

That was a callous comment, but his curiosity was piqued. If her father was the blacksmith, she knew that man had been lying on the ground as they passed. She’d not given the charred remains a second glance.

The sight had turned his guts. He regretted the loss of life in this raid as he did with all the others his father organized against the MacLeods. None of it made sense any more.

“For a lass who just lost her family, you do not seem very upset.”

She gasped. “How dare you, my lord.” Her voice was tight and strained. “I do not owe you any explanation for my feelings or anything else.”

“Not spoken like a blacksmith’s daughter.”

She remained silent. With every second that passed, she gave herself away even more. Her rigid backbone was likely to snap if she didn’t relax. Only ladies sat like that. He placed his hand on her belly and pulled her closer to him.

“There. That’s better, is it not? We have a very long ride ahead of us this day and unless you want to end up on your back for a sennight, you will need to loosen your posture and lean on me.”

She mumbled something he could not understand, but could guess at its nature.

“What’s that you say? You are grateful for my attentiveness to your comfort? You are welcome. I am only too happy to see to your pleasure.”

More mumbling.

She would certainly provide entertainment on the journey. He manoeuvred his destrier over the rocky terrain. Until they reached Knock Castle on the southern part of Skye, he would not be happy. While his father’s target was the MacLeod stronghold at Dunvegan, Malcolm’s was the nearby village of Bracadale. Several other villages had been targeted as well. Between them they intended to claim as many cattle as they could handle, thus starving the MacLeod’s out over the winter.

Unfortunately, he’d met with much resistance from the villagers and so his men got their blood fired and there was no stopping the ensuing carnage. Malcolm guts coiled. The whole damned feud that had gone on far too long. Surely there had to be a way to find common enough ground to keep them all from killing one another.

As a heavy mist fell, her trembling resumed. He wrapped his plaid around them both, enjoying her warm body pressing against his. She tried to flick if off, but he only wrapped it tighter around her.

“How far away is your home?”

“We will have to camp tonight. With all the cattle in tow, we won’t make it to Knock Castle before dark. We plan to herd the cattle at Coire na Creich and head through the Cullins. I hope you like riding, lass. ’Twill be a very long journey for you.”

“I can ride well enough. Perhaps you should give me my own horse and I can show you.”

Malcolm tipped his head back and laughed. “Do you think I am daft? Besides, I prefer you here shifting that pretty bottom of yours against me. I must say, for one not accustomed to such treatment, you know how to fire a man’s blood.” He pushed his erection against her backside. “Tell me, how many lads in the village have been between your thighs?”

She gasped and scooted her bottom forward. He allowed it only because the pressure growing in his loins was too much. If he kept this up with her, he’d have her on the ground and writhing beneath him before long. And writhe she would. She was afraid; and so she should be. But beyond that, he sensed a stirring in her too. Aye, this would be a very interesting journey.