A woman abandoned…

A Highlander starting a revolution…

When Lady Rosamond de Warenne is abandoned by her father in a remote cave, she doesn’t believe her fate could get any worse—until she’s kidnapped by a fearsome Highlander. Laird Tierney MacDougall, recently released from imprisonment by the English, is bent on revenge, starting with marrying the daughter of his tormenter. A union forged from vengeance is doomed to fail—or is it?

* * *

Chapter One

St. Agnes Caves

Off the Coast of Wales

1317

Lady Rosamond de Warenne woke to the sound of voices and footsteps. A scratchy cloth covered her head, blinding her to her surroundings. Her panic was immediate and intense. Heart skipped a beat, belly knotted, throat closed.

What the devil was happening?

For many years she’d believed her father was sinking slowly into madness, and now she knew his journey was complete.

She lay on a cold, earthen floor. Tight ropes cut into her wrists and ankles. Sweat beaded on her brow, her spine, and every part of her, truly. This was fear-sweat.

Fear of the unknown.

Fear of her father.

Fear from the rumors she was certain had gotten her into this current predicament.

Predicament. How understated that word seemed now. Quandary. Pickle. Mess.

None of those terms adequately described her current state.

Night terror. Torment. Living hell. Those descriptors were much more accurate.

Perhaps a sennight had passed since her father barged into her chamber at the king’s court, startling her from where she’d been quietly reading.

John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, had stared down at her with fury in his dark brown eyes. Assessing cruel eyes. Orbs that had judged her since her earliest memories. A deep, soulless cavern that had blamed her for the death of her mother. But not because he loved her mother, only because he was now stuck with two babes and no wife to care for them. Not that he’d done much to see them raised, besides. Nay, he’d quickly married, but to a cruel woman who wanted nothing to do with the two daughters she’d inherited without a choice.

When Rosamond and her twin sister, Loretta, had been called to court to serve their queen as lady’s maids, they were more than eager to get out from beneath the cruel thumb of their stepmother.

Voices mingled with the footsteps, tugging her back to the darkness that held her. The dank mustiness of the room seeped through the scratchy, wool sack covering. Waves crashed loudly against what sounded like a shore or cliff’s side. Where were they? Where had her father taken her? The far reaches of the world?

They’d been on the ship for the last five or six days and nights. She’d lost count. Meager servings of bread and ale had been all she’d received. And she was weak. Tired. Confused. Sick with fear.

A booted foot nudged her. “Wake up,” Surrey demanded.

Rosamond struggled to sit up, but it was hard being tied and blind, so she gave up. “I am awake, father.”

The hood was wrenched from her head, and with it several strands of her hair. She winced at the pain and stared up warily into the same dark brown eyes that had gazed on her with so much hatred these past twenty years.

Blinking away the sudden light, she let her eyes focus. ’Twas not so bright after all. Light cut through the large mouth of a cave to its center, leaving the outskirts in shadows. She was indeed lying upon an earthen floor—that of the cave. It was rocky, covered in dust and dampness that seeped into her skirts.

Along the wall, her father’s men had laid a few crates.

“What…?” she started to ask, but trailed off. Why was she in a cave? Oh dear God, what did her father have planned for her?

“I am due in Kinsale and cannot have you travel with me. You will stay here.”

Ireland. He was going to Ireland. And leaving her here? “In a cave?” Edging her hands behind her hips she managed to push herself up to a seated position.

“Aye.” He gestured to the crates. “We’ve left you some supplies. You will survive on your own.”

Rosamond shook her head. “But, father, I—”

Surrey cut her off with a roar. He raised his hand back as though he would strike her. Rather than flinch as she might have the day before, she sat up straighter, the realization of what was happening, the subsequent anger she felt fueled her indignation.

Scoffing, her father said, “You’ve disgraced yourself. Dishonored your family. You are no daughter of mine.”

“You cannot in good conscience leave me here, father.” Rosamond dropped to her knees in the dank, cold cave, staring up at him and finding it hard to appear meek, but working her best to do so else he deem her petulant on top of the many other accusations he’d flung her way.

Her sire, sneered down at her. Was this his own plan, or was her stepmother a part of it, too? For certes, the woman was just as wrathful as her father.

“I will surely die here.” Panic rising, she tried to make eye contact with some of her father’s men. They could not all be as mad as he. Surely, one of them would take the lord aside and talk some sense into him.

But none looked her way. Instead, one by one, they climbed down the ladder they’d placed there, leaving her alone with the Earl of Surrey, her own irrational father.

“There is food and drink in the crates,” he continued, ignoring her pleas. “Blankets. If you do not survive then it is because God has chosen not to forgive you for your sins.”

Her sins. Offenses that were not her own.

Rosamond was innocent of the charges her father had lobbied against her. Charges he’d let quickly spread like wildfire throughout all of court, to bolster his punishment.

“How can you be so cruel? Was not the retaliation you took against Lancaster enough? I am innocent in all of this!” Her voice broke on a sob, and she sat back on her heels, trembling hands coming to wipe the tears cascading down her chilled cheeks. Rumors had erupted in court declaring Rosamond had given her innocence to the Earl of Lancaster, that he’d taken her to bed time and again right under her father’s nose. That she’d become with child and planned to birth the babe at a nearby abbey. In retribution, her father had stolen Lancaster’s wife. And he now saw fit to punish Rosamond, too.

Truth was, it had been Rosamond’s twin sister, Loretta, who’d shamed their family. Loretta had become with child, and begged Rosamond’s help. What was a sister to do? Theirs was a secret she’d never confess to her father. To her grave she’d take it, because if her father was willing to banish her here, what would he do to Loretta when he found out the truth? And what would he do with the babe?

Well, what could he do? Loretta had run away to a convent. Safely tucked into the Lord’s house, her bastard child would be adopted by the church, her reputation safe from those at court, and her sins absolved. Her secrets forever held by Rosamond.

“Cruel? Cruel? You should be so lucky. Adultery is a sin, and a woman’s wicked intent at the heart of every lustful encounter. King Edward could and should have your head for it.” Surrey let out a disgusted sound and turned his back on her. “Lucky, I say, that I’ve decided to mete out your penance. You’ll remain here. Alone. Banished from society. Disowned.”

She winced at the harsh words he lobbed her way. The backward way he thought of women. That a woman should be blamed for a man’s lusty and unjust behavior. The notion was heartbreaking and outrageous. Unfortunately, ’twas all too real in every day life, no matter the class or blood line. And her king… that he should have wanted to see her dead…

Edward II, King of England, was just as cruel as his father, Longshanks—aptly named by the Scots for his overlong arms and legs. Apparently, her father had learned much from his monarchs. His cruelty knew no bounds, but this—this was extreme. Oh, how she wished she’d known her mother. She and Loretta were nothing like their father and Rosamond could only assume they must have gotten some of their sweetness from the woman who birthed them.

The twins’ mother had been Scottish, although she’d died following the labor of her twin daughters, and Surrey never spoke of her.

This was madness. Resolved to her current fate, Rosamond said meekly, “How long until you return, my lord?”

“Long enough for my heart to heal this blow you have dealt me. Long enough for court to be cleansed of your sin. Long enough for them to forget you’re a harlot.”

Harlot.

A label that would be an unjustified life sentence. Never would a man want to wed her. Forever she’d be left to languish under the cruel thumb of her father. And still she was innocent of all those labels he so heartlessly tossed at her.

Rosamond ducked her head, unable to look at him. Disappointment ran deep, and with it frustration that she would even believe he could think differently. She would die here. For her father had left her only a few crates of supplies. She didn’t even know what they contained. Whatever it was would rot before he decided to return—if he returned. His trip to Ireland could take months.

When he left, perhaps she’d throw herself from the cliff, allow the sea to take her away. To drift on the water until she reached the edge of the horizon. Perhaps even be consumed by a sea king.

Though her father said he would come back, what would make him keep his word? None of his men. They’d all turned their back on her just now. Half of them were already rowing out to the anchored ship.

The other half she could hear murmuring at the base of the cave’s cliff, waiting in the skiff moored to the edge of the high wall, for their lord to traverse the ladder so they could row back to the main galley. Without her.

Were all of them so afraid of her father they would not help her? Rosamond’s throat tightened as she knew the answer to that question. Of course they were. Her father levied high taxes, evictions, lashings, and all sorts of other punishments to keep his people in line. More than once he’d had a village raided, the people terrorized, in order to establish supreme dominance.

None of them would be willing to put their families, or their lives, on the line for her. That was a measure they saved only for their much-feared Lord Surrey.

With a menacing glower, her father pulled a short, sharp knife from his boot. Her eyes widened on the weapon. Had he decided to end her life now instead of prolonging her misery?

Stalking closer, he circled to her back, wrenched up her arms until fresh tears stung her eyes and cut through the bindings at her wrists. He moved next to her feet, working in short saws and grunts until she was free.

Rosamond rubbed her aching joints and raw skin, all the while wondering how it was a father could treat his daughter so ill. And then wondering why she wondered at all.

“I am your daughter,” Rosamond said softly, some of her despair filling her voice, hoping to remind him of their blood tie, of his duty as a father to care for her, protect her. “Whether you choose to acknowledge it or not. I am yours.”

Lord Surrey grunted, then called down for his men to hold the ladder steady. When he looked back at her, his eyes were still hardened with ire and animosity. “Pray for your soul, Rosamond, for no one else will. To walk an eternity in Purgatory is likely your lot.”

And then he was stepping over the ledge, hands holding tight to the sides of the ladder, as he shifted his steps down the rungs.

Panic welled, and she leaped to her feet, rushing toward the edge. “Wait!”

But he didn’t wait. He continued downward, not even bothering to look up. His men at the bottom held the ladder steady as he’d requested. She put a foot to the top rung, either she could climb down or shove hard hoping to topple her father. But the men at the bottom shook their heads briskly, warning in the set of their mouths. If she were to do either, they would kill her. And for some reason, she listened.

Backing into the cave, so the ladder was no longer in view, she stared out the gaping mouth into the wide ocean and sky beyond. The creamy sails of her father’s ship flapped. The flag, the Surrey crest, waved gently back at her. A mocking sway of the white fabric covered with blue and gold checks.

Was this truly happening? Or a night terror she would soon wake from?

Knees buckling from shock, she sank to the floor, her skirts tangling with her legs. All of her limbs felt suddenly so heavy. Her eyelids, too. They slipped closed as she fell backwards onto the floor, pain ricocheting from the back of her skull as her head hit hard on a bit of rock.

Why couldn’t she just sink into oblivion? She sought the darkness of a faint. The sweet relief of unconsciousness. But her mind whirled, refusing to shut off, denying her relief.

She was not going to wait for her father’s return. She was not going to wait until her supplies were gone or rotted. Come what may, Rosamond was going to get out of this cave—alive.

* * *

Chapter Two

The taste of the sea-salt air was heaven. Bloody hell, but Laird Tierney MacDougall never thought he’d see the outside of the Tower of London. Imprisoned for the last decade, he’d dreamt of this exact moment. Well, 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 father, 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, and 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. 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 him 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, John MacDougall, who’d formed an alliance with the English, but Tierney did not feel it was the right thing to do. 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 a double agent—working in league with the Scots against his own English people. 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. The man was easily ten years his 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’s curious about 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 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, when he saw the end in sight and a plan had formulated in his mind. He’d agree, and then 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. Nobody knows me anymore. Maybe I am.”

Samuel grinned, 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 February of 1306, the Bruce murdered his 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. 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 John 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, 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. He’d been arrested and dragged half dead all the way to London where he’d been tossed in the Tower, told every day he’d likely be executed the next morning.

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 the cell.

How he’d had night terror after night terror, fearing every morning would be his last. 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 John MacDougall was gone. Tierney was the rightful laird; he just had to prove to the Bruce he was loyal.

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

“At Gylen Castle.”

The castle was a MacDougall holding, located on the Island of Kerrera, her sound led right to Dunstaffnage.

“She claims you were disowned, that the title and lands rightly belongs to her eldest son, John, 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, nor 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 ye 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 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.”

“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.”

Tierney shook his head, his mood darkening 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.”

“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 and then down 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. When we need to leave Castle Buchanan, we ride. This ship belongs to a friend I’ve made, Shaw MacLeod. He’s plenty of galleys at his disposal. 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.”

The MacDougalls had never physically 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 an age 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.

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 of 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. 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 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?

“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?” Samuel took the spyglass and looked through, breathing in a sharp gasp. “You’re right, looks like a woman.”

“Aye. 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 home. These waters aren’t safe at night. ‘Sides, mayhap she wants to be there.”

“And ’haps not. 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?”

“Aye, or maybe the English.”

“I canna leave her, Samuel.” He 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. “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 he hated to leave her 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 permission. 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. From now on, he only wanted to be the protector of others. The defender of the weak.

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.”

* * *

Chapter Three

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 don’t 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 them at her sides. “Please, leave me in peace.”

The warrior frowned, seeming to think 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 were the things he was saying about marauders and others possibly 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 borne the bastard of his enemy. 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, loafs 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 the 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 ye 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 fell 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.

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