“Las—lad, here. Step here.” Brodrick didn’t give her the time to take the step for herself, instead lifting her by her forearms and setting her over the branch. She pressed her lips, giving him a furious glare.

She never would have thought the big, burly, red-haired man would be this concerned about her. Honestly, she couldn’t take a breath without him telling her to hold on, or to move away from the fire. It was becoming ridiculously annoying, and she was at her wit’s end.

It was midday, and they had been riding for half the amount of time it had taken her and Kane to part. It had been hard for her, but harder for him. She blushed, turning away from Brodrick without a word. She couldn’t speak amidst her heated thoughts.

Their morning had been much like the last one they had had together. No matter how much she insisted that he leave, knowing his men were probably growing anxious, he had refused and driven her to the brink of destruction thousands of time. It wasn’t until she was begging for him, much like he had the night before, that he let her reach completion.

“Brodrick,” Kane snapped, drawing her attention. “The lad can walk alone, ye’ ken. There’s no need to treat him like a lass.”

The irony was not lost on her—nor Connor. While Brodrick gave her a scathing glare, a look that clearly said he wanted to throttle her, Connor struggled to keep his laughter to a minimum.

The whole ordeal was embarrassing.

She could be riding atop her horse, but Brodrick had made a commotion about her mounting. To save herself the embarrassment of Kane giving them glares, she had decided to walk. Had it slowed them down? Aye. Had it made Kane angry? Aye. Had it made Brodrick leave her be at all? Nay. She would have been better off going through with the embarrassment of Brodrick fussing over her like a mother hen, but pride kept her walking.

“Would ye’ just let me put you on the damn horse,” Brodrick growled furiously, grabbing her again when she would have stepped over a sharp rock. She shoved him away.

“Would you just go back to acting as if ye’d never found out?” she demanded. Connor had become aware that Brodrick knew shortly after Saeran had joined the warriors. Now, as more and more men cast her glances, some with realization and others with suspicion, she began to come to terms with the fact that mayhap her secret was not such a damn secret—and she had Brodrick to thank for that.

The only time a warrior worried over a person was when that person was a woman—Lord, rarely then, either!

She only prayed that the men that became suspicious or knowing kept their mouths sealed shut. No one made any move to say anything to Kane. For some reason, it infuriated her and made her grateful at the same time.

Furious because the men did not respect their laird well enough to speak their concerns, and grateful that they were silent.

Fergus, one of the men at the front of the line, glanced back at her. His face was fierce, the threat there certain. If she turned out to be a threat, he wouldn’t hesitate to end her.

Brodrick was the only reason they were not saying anything to Kane.

For that, her glare towards the mother hen lessened, but it did not completely wipe away her annoyance with him. What was the use of anyone staying quiet and risking Kane’s wrath? When they were all making it completely obvious that she was an odd ball?

“I’ve half a mind to tell him,” Brodrick grumbled, though he quickly reached for her when she would have ran into a low-hanging branch. With a huff, she ducked under it—then snorted when Connor met the fate of the branch and stumbled back.

“Sure you do,” she hissed, hiking up her pants. It had rained early this morning. It had been short and hard, just enough to make the ground sloppy and the horses slow.

Kane was an insane man who didn’t understand the risks of ever-changing weather. This was what he had wanted—the MacLeods too preoccupied with tending to their lands from the fast and furious storm to be prepared to fight. It was a smart idea, but it also put the Shaw warriors at risk as well.

“Oh, believe you me, las—”

“Quiet,” Kane snapped. She breathed a sigh of relief, for Brodrick had been just about to slip, when she became aware of the reason he was telling her to be quiet.

Something was wrong. Dangerously wrong.

Instantly, everything changed. She could feel it in the back of her neck by the hairs rising as if chilled. The air was moist and cool, but there was something more to it.

She had felt this before. Ice cold panic slid down her back, and her gut clenched. Kane reared his mount to a stop, and Brodrick didn’t give her the option of being on a horse this time. Without a word, he picked her up and effortlessly tossed her onto her mare’s back. Connor took hold of her reins as Brodrick went to his own.

She didn’t notice any of this, though. She was too busy watching Kane, noticing the tensing of his back, the way his hand went to his claymore. His arms flexed as he wrapped his arm around the hilt, and then he was drawing the blade over his head. The movements were so graceful you wouldn’t have thought he was stiff as a rock, ready for danger.

Déjà vu went through her like an icy shroud, covering her in a film of disbelief and fear. They were under attack.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course someone would attack them. They were on that very same mission—to attack and terrify. Why shouldn’t another clan endeavor to do the same?

As she became aware of the men moving to surround her, she realized that they were not afraid as she was. They were not trembling in their trews like she was, but mayhap that was because they were not wearing trews. They were sitting astride their horses with nothing but their plaids and claymores, which was all they needed to survive really.

“Saeran, I want ye’ to ride into the forest. Donna go to the village—they know that we’re here now.” Brodrick spoke quickly and quietly, but Kane heard them.

He only cast them a glance before biting out the words, “He stays and fights like a man.”

“My laird,” Brodrick protested. His hand came to her shoulder protectively, as if he could protect her from the battle with just that touch. She felt no comfort in it—only a growing sense of hysteria. Kane was not going to let her leave, not as long as he knew she was a lad.

She should tell him. Now.

Saeran had been foolish to think that this could work, that she could protect herself as a man would. None of it had felt real until now, and in this moment, she saw the full stupidity of her actions. Of her lies. Of her deception.

Tell him, her mind screamed.

But she couldn’t.

Memories of the first time they had been attacked assailed her. He had been magnificent in battle, until he realized that she was not safe—his attention had become divided, and that had put them both in danger.

Nay, she couldn’t tell him. Even as tears of frustration burned her eyes, she knew that she couldn’t put the man she loved at risk for her own safety. Saeran reached for her blade, calling on the weeks of training she had. It wouldn’t do her much—she knew that. But at least it would do something.

“What are you doing?” Connor hissed, grabbing her wrist. “If you draw that, they’ll take you as a threat. Ride away from here and stay out of sight.”

“Connor,” Kane snapped. The men became more agitated. She knew they wanted to say something, but they probably held the same thing as herself. Kane couldn’t be distracted by a woman and her deception.

It could cost him his life.

The loss of one woman compared to their laird was an easy decision for them. Saeran could only thank the Lord. Nothing terrible would come to Kane so long as he focused on the battle. Nothing.

The riders broke through the forestry, swords raised.

There was no time to speak. No introductions, no threats, no warnings. The Shaws did not give the MacLeod riders a chance to open their mouths before they were charging towards them. The only warriors to hold back were Brodrick and Connor.

They met her eyes. The fear for her safety was clear.

But in that moment, with the sounds of clashing swords, neighing horses, and furious shouts, the fear washed out of her like someone had poured water over her head. She felt no fear. No panic. No horror. The blade in her hand did not feel as if it weighed as much as the moon. The chilling sounds of death did not wring her heart.

Saeran turned away from them, watching.

This was the life of a warrior. Fighting to survive, killing as if they were an animal.

Animals killed to survive.

Highlanders, humans—everyone was an animal in that instant, and the only thing she could see was Kane. Fighting to survive, killing so he could live. The grace with which his body moved, his sword raised as if it were the claw to his lion’s paw. His fierce demeanor and the murderous rage she saw in his eyes.

It all came to her like a slap in the face.

“Saeran, go,” Brodrick bit out, reaching behind his own back. “We will watch after you. Just go—”

His attention was forced onto the battle when a MacLeod came up behind him. They moved so quickly that she almost missed the flash of his colorful plaid. No, not MacLeod. Campbell.

Campbells were fighting them—and there was no time for her to escape, even if she had felt the need to.

Saeran didn’t. She couldn’t. She couldn’t leave these ferocious men to themselves. Abandoning them was not an option. Her throat closed up, and her body began to react on its own. She wasn’t the meek, terrified woman now.

She knew what to do. They might be seasoned warriors, but she at least knew how to defend herself. Connor urged his horse closer to her, but she slid to the ground from hers, using the mare as a way to shield herself from the battle raging around her.

Saeran hid in the shadows of the trees, watching, wincing every time one of her men was struck. That didn’t stop them, but she knew it had to have hurt. One of the Campbells came close to her spot in the darkness, his back turned to her.

Instinct was the only thing that could have made her do what she did next. The need to protect and defend rose within her like tidal wave, and with one step closer to her, the wave crashed. Her blade drove into his back, wringing a shout of pain from his throat.

The Campbell fell to the ground

Fergus, a man of Kane’s, finished the man off, then stood. He gave her a brief nod before entering the fray. It became a game for him, she realized, watching as he fought with a tenacity that could have rivaled Kane’s. He would find a Campbell, wear him out, and then slowly guide him to Saeran.

Her blade and hand were soaked in blood by the time she came to her senses. The wild feelings inside of her only rose. Guilt mingled with insanity. It boiled inside of her like a hot pit—but this was what needed to be done. She had to help them, in any way she could. If she gained the respect of one of Kane’s men for aiding them, then that meant another ally, and one less Campbell trying to kill them.

When there were three bodies piled beside her, with her legs, arms, and chest covered in their blood, it hit her.

She hadn’t killed them—Fergus had done that—but she had helped.

Saeran sat there, shaking, staring. How long this went on, she didn’t know. All she could register was the bodies and that they were now in front of her, with her own dagger wound left in their flesh.

“Saeran!”

She shook her head, unable to tear her eyes away. Animal. She was an animal. She—she had killed to survive. She clutched her stomach and knelt over, vomiting. Still, despite everything she felt, she knew she wouldn’t have not done it in order to help Kane, in order to help the men.

“Saeran.”

She dug her hands into the ground, hunched. Panting. Weeping. She couldn’t move from her spot as the horror of what she had done ran through her mind. The battle was still going on, but for her, it had faded into the distance. The mental agony stole over her senses, robbing her of her sense of reality.

Of course this was going to happen. This was the battle that Kane had been preparing for the past week. This was the battle that she had purposely tried not to think of. This was the battle that she knew would change her, yet had been unprepared for. She had thought that it wasn’t going to happen, that it couldn’t possibly happen.

It had.

It had, and Saeran had foolishly believed that it was…fake. That everything happening was a façade. It had felt that way—too surreal to be true.

But the men laying beside her were real. Their deaths were true. Their families would be without a father, a brother, a husband…

A sob wracked her. How could she have done this—

Biting pain exploded on the back of her head. Everything went dim.

Her vision swam, but she could feel her body being dragged away from the scene, her head held in a tight grip. The pain was so intense, so sudden, that a choked scream sprung from her lips, one born of pure reaction.

It became so much more—but no one heard it. Whoever had grabbed her was taking her through the forest, one hand holding her by her hair, the other covering her mouth. She couldn’t turn her head, couldn’t even cry out for help. For the first time since leaving the inn, fear assailed her like hot acid.

This was her punishment for aiding Fergus in those men’s death. This was God’s way of making her pay for her sins. Saeran struggled against the grip, a strangled, muted whimper escaping her lips when he only tightened his hold, taking her farther away until it became apparent that no one, not even Kane, would come to her aid.

They couldn’t help someone they couldn’t find.

“What,” the speaker snarled, “kind of piece of shit boy kills a warrior? Without honor?”

He threw her into the ground. She didn’t understand a word out of his mouth from the ringing in her ears. A shadow fell over her.

The man pushed her back into the ground and grabbed for her neck. He was going to kill her, she realized. Terror slid down her back like cold water. It gave her the strength to sit up, knocking her head into his nose. He cursed, but her hit had been weak.

She finally got a view of her attacker. He was old, with graying hair at his temples. His teeth were bared and a red, long beard fell from his face down his chest. Cruel brown eyes met hers. He was almost as big as Kane, but not quite. Age lined his body, giving her an indication on just how old he really was.

The sun was hot in the early noon, but the breeze whipped his hair around his face. She shivered when it reached her. The clearing was small, with a few spare trees dotting the ground. Tied to one of the trees was a beastly horse. It stared at her with large brown eyes.

He came back for her with a snarl. She tucked her head in, raising her arms to protect her neck. If he was going to strangle her to death, he would have to work for it!

But he didn’t reach for her neck. No, he once again reached for her head. His hand grasped her cap and a chunk of her hair, and he pulled viciously. She screamed, forgetting about her neck, and reached for his hands.

They fell away.

Her cap dislodged, and all of the pins holding it there tumbled into the ground.

Blonde locks fell around her face.

The silence was deafening.

“Yer no’ a lad at all,” he mused lasciviously. “Yer nothing but a wee lass, pretending to be a lad. This…this is quite interesting.”

When he reached for her, she didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe. She couldn’t—the panic rising inside of her was too great to bare. He was going to kill her—after he had his way with her.

She met his eyes, slowly, and painfully. Saeran knew what she would see, but to have it confirmed made her gut clench with a terror unlike any she had ever felt before. Not even when the MacLeod had taken her to the ground the day her and Kane had gone for a ride. He had been a foolish, cocky boy.

This was a man who knew how to hurt a woman. She saw it in his eyes, saw it in the tensing of his body as the thought of defiling her crossed his mind.

“Tis a good thing I like a wee lass,” he bit out. Fury flashed in his eyes. “I’ll no’ be killing ye’ for killing my boy—but yer sure going to wish ye’ were dead.”

She tried to shake her head, but his grip prevented it. “No,” she said forcefully. “No, I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Oh, but ye’ did,” he growled. “Ye’ killed him in cold blood—and now yer going to pay for it.”

She stared at him, too frightened to speak. Running was pointless. If her hit to his nose, which was now gushing blood, hadn’t stopped him, she feared that nothing she did would. He was old and experienced, and full of energy and vengeance.

He reached behind him with one hand, drawing out a dirk the size of her forearm. She stared at the metal blade as he pressed it to her cheek in a soft caress.

“I want ye’ to run,” he whispered. “I want ye’ to run so ye’ can feel like the bitch animal ye’ are. No one kills the MacLeod’s son and survives. Not even ye’.”

This was the MacLeod?